#and my will to learn to make them only gets weaker and weaker

[kwondotcom]

(1) i reference almond by won-pyung sohn as the book that minghao is reading. in the english translation, one of my favorite lines is "anything will lose its meaning if you repeat it often enough. at fisrt you feel you are getting the hang of it, but then as time goes by, you feel like the meaning's changing and becoming tarnished. then, finally, it gets lost. completely fades to white. love, love, love, love, love, lo, ve, looo, veee, love, lovelo, -velo, -velo."

i think that perfectly encapsulates a conflict that minghao goes through in the fic. how often can we say a word before it loses its meaning? how generous should we allow ourselves to be when it comes to the truth?

(2) i think i'm a better poet than i am a writer (lol), so one of my habits is referencing beginnings in the endings. this is one such parallel: how minghao learns about the 'gut feeling' from reader, only to subscribe to it when it matters the most.

(3) language as a time capsule, as a chronicle of one's self, is a recurring theme throughout the work. to minghao, mandarin is the sound of a home that he doesn't get to go back to as often; it's his mother's singing, his childhood friends' games. and to you, who knows several languages, korean sounds a lot like coming home. it's the simple language of your past. before you became a translator. before you had to make a living out of words.

(4) more parallels! :) from minghao thinking it's too much, to so much yet not enough. it's a subtle acknowledgement of his feelings taking a turn for something more romantic.

(5) i've joked that this is an origin story for @xinganhao, except it's not really a joke (lol). this fic came to fruition before i made my sideblog. i couldn't figure out a username, and so i just mindlessly jammed out xinganhao, and, bam. the rest is history. so, quite literally, my sideblog is 'darling, hao.' [xīngān is pronounced shin-gahn!]

(6) when i first wrote the movie-watching scene, i expressly named dìdi as the the film they watched. i eventually culled it in favor of being more vague about the movie, since i couldn't bear the story going on for longer. i'd chosen the film for its logline: "in 2008, during the last month of summer before high school begins, an impressionable 13-year-old taiwanese american boy learns what his family can't teach him: how to skate, how to flirt, and how to love his mum."

(7) i remain a firm believer that minghao is not only soulmates coded, but red string of fate coded. honestly, it's the underlying thread (badum-ts) trying my minghao birthday series together. it's explicitly mentioned in haven't we met?, but pervades in the sense that no matter the universe that minghao is set in, there is a string of fate and love tying him into place.

(8) translator!reader's sentiment about soulmates is a ripoff from my favorite series of all time, the good place. i have minghao echo it in the end for another 'full circle' moment.

(9) a small, almost inconsequential part, but i really loved getting to write this. the two faces of the same coin, the sentiment and the language, in the languages that each of you know.

(10) i'd written the story mostly in order— about 85% of it is done that way— but it's worth noting that the japan bathroom 'fight' scene is the last part i wrote. i couldn't figure out a proper argument for them to get in, because the original argument involved minghao getting a little too handsy with the reader. it felt out of character and i'm glad to have written it out. i still feel like the bathroom scene is one of the weaker scenes in the entire piece, especially as the 'conflict' takes place in vague, overlapping conversation, but i needed some sort of catalyst for the scene that follows.

(11) no real^TM notes on this except that i love yearning...! lmao. the "you said it was pretty, but i was looking at you instead" trope is the oldest cliche in the book. unfortunately, i eat it up every! single! time!

(12) the phone call scene is one of my favorites, if only because there's a lot of interesting dynamics there about the push-and-pull of language. reader choosing to stick to korean because of medical jargon/minghao's moment of wanting to tell you to just use mandarin/reader's switch to mandarin when she senses minghao's mounting panic. i feel like it's the part that encapsulates the fic the most. in it, there's also the line i eventually lead with in the intro. being good to you is the easy part. again, it's minghao in a nutshell. the idea that— despite later insistence, in the confession scene— minghao will 'do all the work', he still thinks it's effortless. treating you well. loving you.

(13) the tooth-rotting fluff in the hospital scene genuinely makes me want to tear my hear out. personally, i latch on to this one little line, as well as this part: "he laughs under his breath because he's not sure what to do about his feelings anymore. maybe it's best to just throw himself off the cliff and see what happens, right?"

(14) again, no notes, except for that i truly wanted to do something in ode of minghao since this is a birthday fic. i've always loved his name (the etymologies of names, in general), and so being able to squeeze it in here felt apt. notably, there's at least three distinct sky scenes in the fic. the stars in japan, the cliffside sunset, and the ending with the moon. in japan, minghao has his revelation; on the cliffside, he's given something he can hold to. the beach scene, under the moon, is where he finally confesses.

(15) "of course i'm going to try again tomorrow," he whispers, and he'll do that for the rest of his life if he has to. is probably my favorite line in the entire fic. it's difficult to explain, but it goes much deeper than just a confession of feelings. it speaks a lot about minghao as a character, as a person, from someone who worked hard to get to each tomorrow, someone steadfast and resilient. it's also just a nice sentiment, [fan]fiction or not. the idea that, no matter what it is, there is only really one thing we can do for the rest of our lives: try again, and again, and again, for all the tomorrows that we have.

lost in translation ♾️ minghao x reader.

“being good to you is the easy part.” # day eight of (the)8 days of minghao. ♡ happy birthday, minghao!

☆ includes: translator/interpreter!reader, idiots in love, yearning!!!, hurt/comfort, confessions. alcohol consumption, reader gets a [minor] surgery. mandarin & other languages are all courtesy of google translate. word count: 25,800+ (damn.)

Minghao learned early on that there were words that didn’t always have a translation.

He had grown up with Shenyang Mandarin, only to have to learn Korean, English, and even some Japanese. It was always such a frustrating feeling, to have the Mandarin word at the tip of his tongue then to need to swallow it or substitute it.

He’s never felt that way with you, at least.

You, PLEDIS’ skilled, multilingual interpreter-slash-translator. Minghao remembers the day you came in, nine years ago. How he had felt a spark of hope when you slid into the dialect that was all-too familiar to him. Finally, Minghao had thought.

He had started off as your pupil, your tutee for Korean. Over time, it blossomed into genuine friendship. He can count on one hand the things that he has in Korea. The group. The fans. The other Chinese idols. And you.

It’s comfortable and easy with you. It’s always been. It’s why Minghao is fine with seeking you out at the company, with sliding into the seat next to you even though you’re working on something on your laptop. Checking subtitles for a SEVENTEEN video, it seems.

He waits until you’ve noticed him before he holds out the book he had been reading. It's a Korean novel. Almond by Sohn Wonpyung. He points to a particular phrase— 눈치가 빠르다— before speaking, but the words aren’t in Korean.

“Is there a Mandarin word for this?” he asks in Mandarin, his voice taking on the lower pitch of the dialect. His eyebrows knit together in a look of utter concentration. “Or is this one of those untranslatables?”

You pull out your earphones, a mild look of amusement on your face at Minghao’s sudden appearance. When you realize what he’s asking of you, a small huff of laughter escapes, but you concede to looking at the book in his hands. You say the phrase under your breath, as if testing it out. 

“It’s not untranslatable,” you say, sliding right into Mandarin to match Minghao. “The literal translation is observant or perceptive. But in Korean contexts, it’s meant to describe— I suppose, comprehension that something is going on with a friend, or a family member. Like, ah—”

You pause. And then you code switch, again, this time, to English. “A gut feeling?”

“Ah.”

Minghao’s expression clears as comprehension filters across his face, his mouth forming that little ‘o’ shape as he repeats the phrase as well. “A gut feeling... okay, like intuition.”

He pulls his legs up on to the chair, resting his chin on his knee. “Do you think it's something that is universal? A gut feeling. Is there a word for that in Mandarin?”

You’re far too used to Minghao getting philosophical, to him pressing for more than the first answer. “Gut feeling in Mandarin... zhíjué?” you offer. 

“Zhíjué,” Minghao repeats quietly, mulling the word over. There’s something satisfying and soothing about rolling the syllables on his tongue, the way he does it. The way they come from the back of his throat— a language that's as intimate as his mother's lullabies when he was a child.

He lets the word rest in his mouth for a while— zhíjué, gut feeling— before he looks back at you, his chin tilting forward in a nod. He gives you a little smile, appreciative.

"Mhm," he says. "That’s close enough."

You chuckle before slipping right back into Korean. It’s a dizzying back-and-forth between at most three languages, at any given time. The two of you have been called out for it, but Minghao secretly enjoys the challenge. 

"I’ve been meaning to check that out from my neighborhood's library," you note as you tap at the spine of Minghao's copy of Almond. He privately marvels at how your voice sounds more mellifluous in your first language, almost missing the question you pose. “How are you liking it so far?”

He looks down at the book in his lap, thumbing through the pages idly. “It’s good,” he answers simply. There’s a pause, but it's not quite awkward. It's something else... an afterthought. The next words are quieter than the last. “A bit sad.”

“That’s what most reviewers have said about it,” you muse, leaning back against your chair to stretch your legs underneath you. “Maybe I’ll finally pick it up this weekend.”

Minghao doesn’t look at you directly when you start to stretch out, when your shoulders roll forward. Instead the focus of his eyes is on the book on his lap, but his mind is most definitely not on the words on the pages.

When you mention picking it up that weekend, he nods in silent agreement, the movement a bit stiff. And then, in that same beat: “Have you gone to the doctor about your back pain?”

The question is quiet but pointed, with just a hint of concern to his voice. He spots all the tells of you preparing to lie to him— the tick in your jaw, your tongue peeking out between your clenched teeth. “Of course I have,” you lie smoothly. “It’s just your regular back pains that come with sitting in a chair a lot.”

“Hm.”

Even this late in the game, you still thought you could lie to Minghao. And maybe you could, and he would let it slide, in favor of being considerate and polite.

But only for a bit, because he knows you haven't seen a doctor about the back pain that started recently. Knows that you’re being a hypocrite, always asking him to take care of himself when you aren’t even doing the same for yourself.

He’s not entirely surprised, admittedly. You’ve always been so focused on your work and on taking care of others that it was sometimes hard to think that you focused on yourself. Not that Minghao is one to talk, when it comes to taking time for his own health. But this was you.

He sighs, just barely, before he reaches over to nudge you on the shoulder, like he would do with Jun or Soonyoung or any of the other members. “Liar.”

A sound between a huff and a laugh escapes you, but then you raise your palms in a show of surrender. 

“I haven't really had the time to go to the doctor,” you admit sheepishly. “There’s been a lot of content to translate. And I’ve been preparing for the group's Japan showcase next week.”

Minghao knows you well enough to know that you'd probably work yourself till you dropped, if you had the chance. The thought makes him want to roll his eyes.

“Mm,” he responds, his eyes narrowing as he crosses his arms across his chest. “You can stop working for ten minutes to go to a clinic. You have enough money. And even if you don’t, I could—”

He cuts himself off, biting the inside of his cheek. The words nearly slipped.

— take you to one, he had meant to say. 

The offer is on the tip of his tongue; the thought of you walking around with such bad back pain that you could barely walk without hobbling having pissed him off. Some part of him, some tiny selfish part, is holding him back from saying anything.

Maybe he just wants to see what you do. If you’ll finally do something about it, if only because he’s asked you to care for yourself for once.

There’s a flicker of surprise on your expression, though it's quickly smoothed out by something more akin to affection. Minghao had always been the thoughtful kind. It had taken some time for him to warm up to you, but around three or so years into your friendship, you’d started becoming a recipient to his quiet care and compassion.

“I’ll get a proper checkup once the Japan showcase is over,” you finally concede, if only to put his mind at ease. “The whole thing. A CT scan and all that.”

Minghao let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding out in silent relief, his shoulders dropping. When you promise that you'll go for a checkup when the Japan showcase is over, part of him wants to say I don’t believe you or I’m coming with you or even I’ll take you there myself.

But he decides to keep his mouth shut. There's no point in arguing, unless he wants to give you even more of a headache. He huffs with faux annoyance. "I’ll hold you to that," he tells you.

Minghao’s little show of annoyance does little to unnerve you, especially when you know it’s just that. A show. You shake your head with amusement before glancing at the table in front of you, where your laptop rests, forgotten. 

“I still have to finish this, though,” you say almost ruefully to Minghao, tilting your head slightly as you look back at him. “Do you have any other schedules for the rest of the day?”

“I don’t,” he says. “We have a free day today. My only plans were to bother you.”

Minghao’s definition of bothering was a lot different from, say, what Mingyu or Jeonghan would call being a bother. No, for Minghao, bothering you entailed simply being in your space— mostly in silence.

“Knock yourself out, then,” you say with a slight wave of your hand, essentially giving Minghao the carte blanche to stick around, maybe read, as you finish off your work. “I'll probably be done in half an hour. Let's grab something to eat after?”

“Thirty minutes,” he agrees. “And I get to pick the place.”

For the next half hour, Minghao makes an effort to not bother you in the way most of the other members would. No unnecessary comments, no sudden pokes with a pen or a random finger tapping at your shoulder.

He simply sits there, legs crossed out in front of him, one hand flicking through the pages of the book he was reading earlier, the other hand on his knee. Every so often, he glances up, just a brief glance to check if you’re still swamped with work.

It’s hard for anybody, even the most unobservant of people, to miss the sight of the two of you  sharing the couch in the company lounge. Two such different people— you, with your cool temperament and soft features, and Minghao, with his sharp eyes and his sharper tongue.

And yet, the sight of the two of you is more familiar than anything else. Anyone who’s been around the company long enough has seen the two of you sitting almost shoulder to shoulder. Quiet. Serene. At utter peace with each other's company.

There are others who want to interrupt, but the intensity of Minghao’s gaze as he glances up briefly is enough to discourage them. It’s a silent challenge and a promise that they better not disturb the two of you.

By the end of the thirty minutes, you’re nearly done with the video subtitles, and Minghao is about five or so pages from finishing his book. The book has been set aside on the table by then, his gaze now focusing on your work, rather than the story in his hands.

You hammer out the last of your subtitles with a mumble of “I’m done, I’m done.” 

You shut your laptop with a slight snap, groaning slightly as you sink back against the back of the couch. “That was rough,” you huff as you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “My French is getting rusty.”

“You say that about every language,” he points out. He watches you for a moment more before he reaches over, fingers wrapping around one of your wrists to tug at your arm. “Come here.”

This wasn’t the first time he’d used touch to get your attention. Minghao wasn’t the most outwardly tactile, but he had his moments. Touch was an easy, unspoken thing; it required no language, it spoke volumes.

This was one of those rare, intimate, moments of his. The moments where he let his guard down, the walls around him falling away. He tugs again, pulling you a little closer to him.

“Come here,” he says again. The word comes out in Mandarin, his fingers gently squeezing around your wrist, his other hand going to your hip to encourage you to lean in.

“So demanding,” you huff in the same language. 

You’re complaining, but there isn’t any bite or any real annoyance in your tone. If you were really bothered, you’d pull your arm away and snap at him in Korean. Instead, you go along with what he’s doing, allowing him to pull you closer, even as you continue to grumble under your breath in Mandarin.

You give too much, he thinks silently, as his hand moves up from your hip to gently press your head into his shoulder, his arm wrapping around your waist instead. You let me have too much.

It’s a compromising position, especially in the company lounge. No other idol would be caught dead cozying up to a staff member like this, but Minghao was just a little bit above it all and HR had long since given up on lecturing you both about propriety.

Your hand absentmindedly rests over his knee, the platonic touch hidden underneath the table. You stick to Mandarin as you hum “This is nice.”

Minghao can’t help but agree with your words, his eyes fluttering close as he rests his cheek on the top of your head. Even with a company full of people around you and a door that anyone could walk through at any second, the two of you are tucked away in your own little world. He hums in response to your words, his own hand moving slightly to lace his fingers through yours.

Despite the fatigue weighing down on you both, the two of you stay like that, tangled together on the couch in a way that's more akin to a couple than just friends.

Eventually, the silence and stillness between you two is broken by a gentle knock on the wood.

Minghao’s eyes flutter open; he lifts his head up slightly to glance towards the door. “It’s open,” he says, his voice not betraying that you’re tucked into his side or that his hand is tangled with yours.

The door creaks open a crack, and Jeonghan peeks in. His eyebrows shoot up slightly. His mouth opens and closes, as if to say something, but you can see a knowing look pass across his face.

“Ah,” he says, and it almost sounds like he’s laughing.

You code switch to Korean, unsurprisingly. “Jeonghan,” you greet, raising your free hand to wave at the older boy. You make no real effort to disentangle from Minghao. If anything, the fact that it's just one of his members makes it easier for you to just relax a bit more. "Hao kept me company while I was working."

"I can see that," Jeonghan says with no shortage of amusement. He steps into the room, decisively closing the lounge door behind him. "I figured he'd be here."

Jeonghan takes a few steps closer to the couch before he halts, just a few steps away, his legs slightly apart and his arms folded over his chest. He looks between the two of you, his gaze drifting meaningfully from the arm wrapped around your waist, to the fingers still entwined with Minghao's.

“He's good at keeping company,” Jeonghan agrees, his head slightly tilted.

“Shut it,” Minghao grumbles in response, irritation obvious in his voice.

He doesn’t move his head or his arm wrapped around your waist. Instead, he raises his other hand— the one that’s still holding your hand— to give Jeonghan a gesture that clearly means for him to go away.

Jeonghan just laughs in response to the gesture, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “What, are you two lovebirds too busy for me?” he says, his tone deliberately saccharine. “I just wanted to tell you that the boys scheduled a game night later.”

Minghao glances down at the watch on his wrist, before looking back at the two of you. “What time?” he grumbles to Jeonghan, visibly displeased at the thought of having to disentangle from you. 

“In about an hour,” Jeonghan sing-songs. 

“Don’t be late,” he adds cheerfully, before promptly turning around and leaving the room.

“There goes our dinner plans,” you deadpan to Minghao once Jeonghan has left, although you don’t really sound upset about it. It’s more of a statement of a fact.

“Guess so,” he responds, his chin still resting on top of your head. Your hair is soft, and his fingers absently brush against the strands.

There’s a beat of stillness between the two of you, before he speaks again. “Sorry,” he murmurs, the word quiet and soft. He knows you’d probably been hoping to eat before going back to subtitles.

“No apologies necessary,” you say easily, because this was just sometimes the reality of our friendship. You always had a dozen other things pulling at you in different directions, and so a couple of stolen hours was always a welcome reprieve.

You give Minghao's hand a gentle squeeze. “Let's stay like this for— five more minutes,” you bargain, a slight smile tugging at your lips as you stare ahead. “And then we can pack up.”

“Five more minutes?” Minghao repeats, his voice low. He thinks over your words for a moment, before he lets out a soft sigh, his hand tightening around yours. “Okay.” 

There aren’t many moments when he isn't in control, or when he lets his guard down. But this— with you, with your soft hair and comfortable warmth, is something he can’t resist. He lets his chin rest on top of your head, the weight of his head resting against you. He closes his eyes, and simply lets himself breathe.

The minutes pass by in comfortable silence, the two of you still tangled together on the couch. For those few moments, Minghao has nothing to worry about and nothing to think about. He has no choreography to practice, no schedule to keep. 

Five minutes spin into seven, then ten. Neither of you are keen to pull away. At the fifteen-minute mark, you finally do try. “We’ve had more than five minutes,” you say against Minghao’s shoulder.

Minghao’s arm tightens around your waist, his fingers curling around your hip in a silent bid to keep you in place. He can feel the reluctance in your tone, the hesitation, and that’s what spurs him to be a little selfish.

He lets out a soft breath, his words a low, reluctant mumble. “Just... one more minute.”

“We have to go, xīngān,” you mutter absentmindedly.

It’s unfair, the way a single word in Mandarin sounds perfect in your voice. He doesn’t know if you’re even aware that you just called him darling— maybe it was a lapse in the switch to Mandarin, maybe it was intentional.

Either way, it doesn’t take more than a single moment for his heart to skip a beat, the sound of the word making something flutter and stir in his chest. His fingers involuntarily tighten around your hip.

“Okay,” he responds, his own voice coming out quieter than usual.

He does let go of you afterwards, the loss of your body heat making his hand feel a little cold. The couch feels noticeably larger and cooler without your side pressed against his, and he already misses the weight of your head against his shoulder.

Minghao tries very hard to look collected as he stands up from the couch, his face almost carefully neutral. His lips quirk up into the ghost of a smile before he offers you a hand to help you up as well.

He holds your hand a little longer than is necessary before letting go slowly. Silence drifts over the two of you as you make your way to the door, and for once, Minghao isn’t quite sure what to say. All he can think about is the single word you’d used— xīngān, in that warm tone of yours.

It’s an endearment he’s heard from friends, family, and fans. It’s a simple, innocent term. The only thing that makes it strange is that he’d never heard you use it for him until now.

He clears his throat, trying— and failing— to keep the quiet waver out of his voice. “Hey,” he says, the word falling from his lips a little more softly than he'd intended.

He pauses for a beat, as you turn to look at him questioningly. He doesn't know how to voice what he wants to say, so he opts to keep things as simple as possible.

“You called me xīngān,” he says point blank. 

For a moment, the silence drags on as you keep walking. "Xīngān," you repeat a little dumbly, your eyebrows furrowed as you try to remember how the word translates in. When it seems to dawn on you, you stop dead in your tracks. 

You’re speaking in Korean when you frantically wave your hands in front of you, your eyes slightly wider than before. “I’m sorry,” you say, panicked. “I think I was aiming for yīngjùn de. You know, ‘handsome.’ I don’t know why I called you—”

Minghao's shoulders nearly slump in disappointment. It’s a stupid, pointless feeling. It’s just a word, and a common endearment, at that— and yet he’s disappointed to learn that you were trying to say something else.

He gives a little scoff, not bothering to keep the petulance out of his voice. “Oh,” he responds, his hand lifting to rub absently at the back of his neck. “Damn.”

“Did you— like being called xīngān?” you ask, and then you try for the term in your smooth, easy Korean. “Yeobo?”

Minghao hesitates, the slightest hitch in his breath as you repeat the word in Korean.

The truth is a stupid, pointless one. The truth is that his heart almost jumped into his throat the moment he heard that single word, those two syllables. The truth is that he did like being called that. He liked being called darling. He liked it a lot, to be quite honest.

He gives an aborted nod, his gaze falling away from your face. “Maybe. A little.”

“In Korean or in Mandarin?” you prod. 

“Do you prefer yeobo,” you start, the Korean term rolling easily off your tongue. “Or xīngān?”

Your Mandarin version is a little more hesitant, more reserved, but just a touch more sweeter.

Both, Minghao nearly blurts out, before he stops himself. He doesn't know which one it is he likes more— the sweet, gentle lilt of the Mandarin, or the smooth, almost-familiar Korean. All he knows is that the sound of being called ‘darling’ in your voice, in any language, makes something in his chest flutter and tighten.

He hesitates, but again— there's no point in being coy about it, is there? 

“Both,” he answers softly, his eyes lifting up to meet yours.

“Darling,” you test out— this time not in Mandarin or Korean, but in English. It's heavily accented and clumsy, but the sentiment is still the same. Minghao sucks in a breath, his heart skipping another beat. It's stupid, he’s stupid, but—

He likes how you sound, speaking English. He likes the way your words soften and drag, the way your tongue wraps around the syllables, the gentle flow of your sentences. It’s all so stupid, and yet his heart can't help but skip another beat as he listens to you speak.

The corners of his mouth lift slightly. “I like that one too,” he responds.

“In any language, huh?” you tease lightly, a light pink dusting your cheeks. The two of you begin to walk, again, because you do have places to be.

In an absentminded way, you begin to mumble the ways you know ‘darling’ is translated in other languages.

Spanish. Cariño. Portuguese. Querido. Italian. Tesoro. French. Chérie. German. Liebling.

If nothing else, Minghao has to admit that watching your cheeks flush— and hearing you speak all these other languages— is very distracting.

He’s still busy mentally storing away this new, intriguing tidbit of information that he's learned about himself, but he still can't help his mind from wandering at the sound of other languages falling from your lips. A few of them are familiar, having seen or heard them before, but some of them are entirely new.

Minghao can’t help his mind from dwelling on how good they sound when you say them.

"Wait— what about Arabic?" he asks, cutting into your little list.

It’s the only one he can think of. He just wanted to hear you say this one, too.

“I haven’t touched Arabic in ages,” you mutter distractedly. Minghao can’t help but silently laugh as he watches your facial expressions flicker in a series of micro-emotions, each one slightly different from the other. Frustration, confusion, a pinch of annoyance— and all of it over this little thing.

“I think it's maḥbūb,” you answer after a full moment's pause. Your nose scrunches up in mild frustration; the endearment accented in the language you don’t use often.

His laugh turns into a little scoff, before he finally just lets the laugh roll right out of his lungs. “You’re cute when you’re frustrated,” he tells you fondly, the words falling from his mouth before he can help himself.

Shit.

He'd planned on saying that, but not so— casually. So off-handedly, without a thought to the meaning behind the sentiment. It’s a little much, and yet he can't take the words back now that they’re out there. Thankfully, you take it in stride. 

“And you’re cute for liking to be called darling,” you tease right back.

The words hit Minghao square in the chest like one of your punches. He’s glad you’re a few paces ahead of him so you can’t see the way his mouth parts slightly, the way he nearly stumbles. He’s thankful for the few beats of silence before you pipe up once more.

“I think I’ll stick to xīngān,” you commit.

And just like that, he’s breathless again.

He’s a sucker for that term, the way it rolls off your tongue. The way you choose it, like it's the easiest, most obvious choice in the world. “Xīngān,” he finds himself echoing, his voice softer, breathier than he’d meant it to be.

The sound of it leaves a warm, pleasant feeling in his chest. He likes the safety of the word, the way it makes something in his chest flutter. He can’t help the slight smile from tugging at his lip.

“I like the way you say it,” he admits, no longer bothering to keep up the charade of nonchalance.

“I’ll say it more, then,” you muse.

Minghao isn’t even fully convinced that you realize that this is flirting. He’d always gotten that feeling, that you don't always notice when something turns into that sort of casual teasing. He knows you can flirt; he’s witnessed some of your flirtations personally and he’s heard plenty of stories from the others.

But this sort of thing— this banter, the way you tease him with a casual sweetness in your voice— it’s new flirting territory. It’s something he's never experienced in your presence.

He follows you silently to the doors of the company, his heart pounding in his chest. The two of you walk side-by-side, your hips and shoulders nearly brushing with every two steps.

Neither of you bother to slow down as you near your inevitable separation. There isn’t a point, after all. Why draw out the goodbyes?

Before he loses the confidence, Minghao reaches out to snag your wrist. He can only hope that you’re less oblivious than he’s afraid you are. 

“Hey,” he calls you back, his voice just a touch breathless. “You free this weekend?”

You tilt your head to one side, only momentarily thrown off. It wasn’t unnatural for you to meet with the boys when they didn’t have a schedule. Sometimes, it was a language lesson; other times, it was a spontaneous hangout. It was always discreet, never anything to really read in to.

You and Minghao have had your fair share of escapades. Chinese takeout on the floor of your apartment, trips to a local library. They’re few and far between, but always welcome.

“I’m free Saturday evening. I have to work in the morning, and I have a family thing on Sunday,” you answer. “What’s up?”

Minghao feels the slight tension in his shoulders loosen at your answer. It’s not a no, not when it comes with a little extra clarification, as though you had been expecting something of a meetup anyway.

He drops the grip on your wrist, his fingers loosening just enough that you can pull away if you want. “Do you want to—” he starts, the words catching in his throat. Is it just him, or is the hallway warm? “Do you want to go to the movies?”

“The movies? Sure. What did you want to watch?" you inquire, your head tilting further as your curiosity is piqued.

The overhead lights catch the soft, sharp lines of your face, illuminating the features that Minghao knows like the back of his hand. The gentle tilt of your chin, the way you’re slightly shorter than he was, the way your hair frames your face in a messy but unfussy way— as though you didn’t try, but the effect was pleasing nonetheless.

It’s an effect that isn't lost on Minghao, that leaves something warm and fond twisting in his chest. He struggles to get a hold of himself.

“There's a film festival,” he says. “An international film festival, over in Gwangjin.”

If Minghao were a weaker man, he would have beamed at your reaction— the excitement in your voice, the way you reached out to squeeze his wrist in turn.

“That sounds fun,” you say happily. “I’d love to go.”

He knew you were passionate about languages, about cultures— one of the reasons you two have gotten on so well, as you’re the only person he’s ever met who shares that sort of enthusiasm. The only person who understands it in a way that doesn’t feel too much.

He gives you a little flicker of a smile before he answers. “Good.” 

There's a beat of silence as he contemplates his next few words— and what exactly he was about to propose. “You know…” he finally says, his tone just a little hesitant. “There's a… there's a film that I really wanted to see. In the festival, I mean.” 

“It’s in Mandarin,” he quickly clarifies, the words tumbling from his mouth in a way that feels a little too much like panic. “Um— will your Mandarin be up to it? No subtitles.”

“I’ll be up for it,” you assure Minghao laughingly. “If I miss anything, I guess I’ll just have to ask you.”

Ask him? The idea— the mere implication that you’d be leaning in, closer, to ask him. That you’d be needing something, some sort of clarification, a better context.

The way you'd need him.

And perhaps it was obvious, the way you and he were constantly switching back and forth— him with his Mandarin and your Korean and English, to fill in the blanks. But the words still set something loose in his chest, to know that he would be there to help you if you needed it.

“Yeah,” he says, once he finally manages to remember how to speak. “Yeah, you can ask me.”

As you begin to step away, you speak up. “It’s a date, then,” you say casually, still painfully unheeding to the implications of everything. “Will you pick me up or should I meet you there, xīngān?”

Minghao has never felt more simultaneously grateful and betrayed by your lack of awareness.

Because how could you be so casual, how could you just drop that right in front of him— calling it a date, calling him ‘darling’— as though it was nothing more than just another hangout? It leaves him reeling in a way that makes it impossible to respond.

He can only offer a nod, his throat dry, as one hand lifts in a half-wave. “I’ll pick you up,” he says, his brain lagging behind with the rest of his body.

You give a small wave back, your smile just as bright and friendly as the rest of you. This was going to be a thorn in Minghao's side, it seemed. Your brain wasn’t good at half measures. You needed clarity, needed straightforwardness to confront abstract feelings.

You disappear through the revolving front doors of the company, leaving Minghao in the company lobby that suddenly feels all-too warm. His phone pings in his pocket; a text from Jun.

You're late to game night, his member teases. Get away from the love of your life and get your ass over here. ㅋㅋㅋ

Because of course Jeonghan had tattled to all the other boys where Minghao had been. He rolls his eyes as he glances down at the screen, tapping out a quick response.

I'm coming. Don't cheat.

He glances up and back at the glass revolving doors, knowing full-well that you're already on the street at this point.

Minghao, for all his bluntness, has suddenly found himself in a situation where all he can do is beat around the bush.

Minghao arrives outside your apartment building on time, his hands shoved deep in his pockets against the early evening chill. His heart is pounding in his chest, the nervous energy buzzing in his veins.

He had dressed up. He had put on cologne. He was taking you to a film festival. What could possibly happen that would go wrong?

It's a thought that is interrupted when a horn beeping snaps Minghao's attention away from his inner thoughts, as he straightens and glances down the street. There's no one parked on your street, no one walking down the sidewalk. He takes a step forward, peering across to the other side of the street— and there you are, stepping out of the building.

It takes everything he's got to keep a straight face. It feels like something out of a drama, and he's still not entirely sure he's not dreaming.

The fact that you're dressed up too is not lost on him. Damn it, of course you'd look good to him, no matter what you'd chosen to wear.

Minghao straightens as you draw closer, suddenly not quite knowing what to do with his hands. Does he pull you in for a hug? Offer up a casual, friendly greeting?

He settles for a nod, shoving his hands further into the pockets of his jeans, doing his best not to stare. "Hey."

"Hey," you greet right back, flashing Minghao a dimpled smile. You give Minghao a once-over.

"You look nice," you say like it's the most casual observation in the world. 

The praise sets something aflutter in Minghao's stomach, his hands gripping his car keys a little tighter to try and keep them from shaking. "Thanks," he responds, somehow finding it in himself to step closer and unlock the car door for you. "You look good, too." 

Good doesn't even begin to cover it, he thinks as he goes to slide into the driver’s seat. 

"You got me nervous," you say as you pull the seat belt over yourself, suddenly slipping into Mandarin. "About the film having no subtitles, I mean. So I ended up brushing up on my Mandarin."

He lets out a small huff of a laugh that's bordering on a scoff. "Since when have you had to brush up on anything?" he responds in Mandarin as well, flicking on the turn signal and pulling the car out into the street. "Your Mandarin is perfect."

"I'm always studying. You know me," you chirp, leaning forward slightly to fiddle with the knobs of Minghao's car radio. You’ve been in his passenger seat enough time to feel comfortable doing this; you settle on a station playing mostly Western indie songs.

"And my Mandarin always has room for improvement," you go on. "I'm still working on that C2-level proficiency."

Of course you weren't satisfied with just good. You had to go and be an overachiever. Minghao finds himself shaking his head at the thought of how your drive for excellence in everything was— for lack of any better word— admirable and adorable all at the same time.

"You're insane," he says under his breath, still so awed by self-imposed standards. "You really don't need to do that, you know. You're great the way you are."

"How is it that you're both goading and complimenting me at the same time?" you tease.

The way you speak sounds effortless and yet Minghao can pick up on the little moments where your tongue would just ever so slightly stumble. He could correct you, but God, he's never quite heard that same sound before.

In fact, he's suddenly very aware of just how different you two sound when you speak his mother tongue.

"It's called being a good friend," he responds, fighting the rising urge to say something else.

"You're a pain in the ass, but I love you, anyway," he continues, his hand settling on a knob on the center console to change the radio station to something with a bit more of a modern beat. You always had to listen to indie music.

As the sounds of some Top Fifties pop song filters through the car, you let out a snort of laughter and respond noncommittally to Minghao's jab. "Love you, too," you say with no shortage of sarcasm. The words, in Mandarin— wǒ yě ài nǐ— still sound soft and sweet and lilting, despite your best effort to sound mocking.

Minghao suddenly has to swallow against his very dry throat. He hadn't expected that response from you, not when the last time he had said those words to you was months and months ago during an argument between the two of you. A particularly stressful work week, a squabble that neither of you talk about anymore.

"You better," he manages to respond, his voice cracking ever so slightly on the second syllable of 'better'. He hopes it goes unnoticed.

That little stutter, that tiny stumble around the last syllable of 'better', was the only indicator that betrayed the way Minghao's heart was hammering out the wildest beat in his chest.

He knows it's a sign of his own impending nerves when he turns the radio volume all the way up, drowning out any chance of conversation between the two of you for the rest of the ride to the venue.

Far too used to Minghao's pockets of peace, you pay no heed to the fact that the rest of the car ride is spent in companionable silence. You only break it once Minghao is pulling up into the parking lot of the theater house.

"You should go ahead. I'll get us snacks," you offer delicately, this time in Korean. The reminder of how the two of you had to hide any sort of public interaction settles like a stone at the very bottom of Minghao's stomach, and yet he nods anyway, silently agreeing with the logic of your suggestion.

You ask, "Is there anything you want to eat?"

He lets out a soft sigh as he pulls the keys out of the ignition. "Popcorn," he responds, his eyes skimming over your form as you unclick the seatbelt to leave. "With M&Ms."

The familiar request makes a small smile tug at your lips. It was the same thing, still, that Minghao asked for after all these years of movie-watching. "Got it," you say, sliding out of his car. "I'll find you in a bit."

Even through the closed car door and over the sound of the car radio turned up to its highest, he can still clearly hear the smile in your voice. It sets that now familiar thump in his chest into overdrive.

"Hurry up," he responds in all of his usual nonchalance, despite the fact that his eyes are still following your figure, taking in the way you carry yourself as you walk away.

Shit, he's so gone for you.

Minghao's choice of seats are typical as always. In the very back of the theater, to keep him away from possible prying eyes.

You settle into the seat at his right, carefully balancing the food you’d gotten the two of you. "I couldn't carry two popcorn buckets, so we'll have to share this big one," you whisper to him as you pass him his pack of M&Ms and a bottle of soda.

"Thanks,” he murmurs over the sound of advertisements playing over the big screen.

"I've heard a lot of good things about this film," you mumble. "No making fun of me if I cry."

"I would never," he replies, voice as light as yours.

Sure enough, the opening of the film has Minghao leaning forward on the edge of his seat, engrossed in the drama unraveling between the characters on-screen. It's like he was that sixteen year-old boy in the movie, struggling to find his place in the world.

He's all but quiet in his consumption of popcorn, a hand sneaking into the bucket at times to munch on a few pieces idly. A few times, when the food almost runs out— he accidentally brushes his fingers against yours. The touch is brief, accidental, but each time, his skin feels like it's singing, and he fights the impulse to grasp your hand altogether every time he reaches for popcorn.

He does notice, however, when you seem to encounter unfamiliar words. His gaze flicks over to you as your lips wordlessly form the nickname they call the main character. Xiǎoshì.

It's a term, sure, but it's far more than that to him.

For him, it's a moment. A time in his life that was so brief, but one he remembers like it happened yesterday. A small part of him wants to tell you all about it, but he can't now. 

And so he settles on another form of communication. With your attention still on the screen, Minghao reaches over— and finally grasps your hand. Interlocking your fingers together.

As your fingers grasp with his, a part of him hopes that you don't pull away. He almost wants to look sideways at you, just so he can see your reaction— read your face as you focus on the movie in front of you, as your heart beats fast, loud, against your ribcage.

He doesn't dare to hope, though. He keeps his hand in yours, holding on tightly, as the movie continues to play out, the scenes getting more familiar to him.

The main character gets into a particularly nasty row with his mother about following his dreams, about leaving home, about wanting a better life than the one they had in their province. His gaze flinches slightly at the familiar scene before him and the memories, the emotions, that it all brings up in him.

It's a tense scene, spoken in the scathing language he'd grown up in, and you can tell the way it's affecting him. Instinctively, you reach your free hand over to gently press at the side of Minghao's head; a quiet invitation for him to rest his head on your shoulder.

Minghao takes you up on your invitation, the touch of your hand almost a command to him. He lets his head rest on your shoulder, not unlike a weary puppy. He can practically hear his mother's voice in some parts of the argument playing out in the movie. He can hear his own words echoing in his ears— almost as if he himself was the one speaking on-screen.

He wants to stay in the moment, with you, in the darkened theater as the movie continues to play. He doesn't think he can tear his eyes away from the screen, just like how he feels like he can't let go of your hand.

But it's a movie— a coming-of-age one, at that— and so all ends well. The boy and his mother reconcile. The main character is not any older by the last part of the film, but he's wiser, and the whole thing ends with him looking out at the Beijing skyline, humming an old lullaby for comfort.

The credits roll. The lights stay off as they do, and you finally, finally, bring yourself to pull away from Minghao's shoulder.  

You keep your hand in his, though, as you let out a quiet, watery laugh. "Xu Minghao," you reprimand in Mandarin. "You took me to the saddest movie ever."

"I told you," he responds back lightly, in Mandarin, his own voice a little rough from trying to hold himself back just a bit. "My friend said it was a sad one, when he recommended it. And you said you were fine."

He squeezes your hand again, shifting in his seat so that he was facing you, a hint of teasing in his tired eyes.

Absent-mindedly, you rub your thumb on the back of his palm. "How did you like it?" you ask, pitching your voice lower, still, despite no one being within your vicinity.  

Minghao's eyes soften a little at the tender gesture on your part. He feels the light, comforting motion of your thumb brushing against the back of his palm and he lets out a small, shaky sigh of his own. "It was... a little difficult to watch," he admits, his voice quiet, his eyes focused on your interlocked hands between you.  

"Do you want to talk about it over dinner?" you offer, your smile just a touch rueful. "Or we could just... have dinner and not talk about it at all. Whichever works best for you."  

At your offer, a small, almost self-deprecating smile quirks at the corner of Minghao's lips. He squeezes your hand one more time. "Dinner, yes. Talking, no."

The walk back to the car is a quiet one. Once you’re in your seats, Minghao puts the burden of deciding on you. 

"There's this barbeque place I've really been wanting to try out over in Myeongdeong," you rave, but then your fingers freeze over the GPS screen. You glance at Minghao over your shoulder, suddenly a bit sheepish. "It's a bit out of the way from your dorm and my apartment, though. Is that alright?"  

He lets out a small, soft laugh, shifting in his seat a little before reaching over to lightly flick your ear. "When has distance ever stopped me?" he retorts, his usual dry tease in his voice. "Let's go, I'm starving."  

"Alright, alright," you huff as you plug in the address. The directions to the restaurant— somewhere twenty minutes away, barring traffic— appear on screen as you move back into your seat, still pouting slightly at your ear being flicked. "I just thought you'd be sick of me after the movie."  

"Sick of you?" He scoffs at your words as he begins to peel out of the parking lot. "I think I would die of boredom without you, actually."  

“Ah. Because no one else will keep up with you like this, hm?"  

"They're not quick enough. You're one of the rare ones who don't make me want to tear my hair out."  

"You're laying it on thick tonight. Is this a ploy to get me to pick up the dinner bill?” you tease. "Because really, Hao, there's a rather big difference between the salaries of idols and translators."  

He chuckles a little at your comment, his grip around the steering wheel tightening slightly. "No, this is not a ploy to make you pay for dinner. I'm treating tonight. I'm rich, remember?"  

"Yah, you're not treating!” you shoot back. “We’ll pay for our own shares. You should only spend your money on things that are important.”  

"And treating you isn't important? You're always important to me. Don't deny it."  

When you suddenly go silent as a flush starts to creep up your face, Minghao can't help but look away from the road for a few moments to glance at you from the corner of his eye. He can only see the side of your face, the blush that colors your cheeks glowing against your skin.  

"You can't just say stuff like that so casually," you snap, though your tone is soft around the edges. "You should save that for birthdays or holidays."  

"And why only birthdays and holidays?" he muses. "I'd rather tell you all the time."  

In a bid to regain a bit of an upper hand, you keep your eyes out the window as you mumble in Mandarin, "Just keep driving, xīngān."  

Seeing your flustered face flush an even deeper color of red gives Minghao a sort of satisfaction, his lips tugging up at the corners. He can't help but chuckle a little more when he hears the words that leave your mouth in Mandarin, his mind taking a few moments to register the nickname he's grown to like.  

"Yah, don't just call me that without warning," he says, voice slightly muffled as he continues to focus on the road. "My heart can only handle so much."  

You finally glance over at him. The blush still lingers, but there's a bit of a mischievous glint in your eyes now. "Should I warn you, then, if I'm about to use it?" you say sweetly, sticking to his mother tongue for the sake of seeing how far you can go with it. "Should I only save it for special occasions?"

"Yes," he manages to hiss out after a beat, a small scowl on his face when he realizes that you're taking advantage of his weakness. "I'd much prefer you to warn me in advance. And only use it on occasions that actually count."

"I'm about to use it," you warn instantly, leaning slightly forward to turn down the radio. There had been some other group's song playing, filling the car with the sweet, lilting sounds of a ballad.  

"This occasion counts, xīngān," you sing-song. "Every moment with you counts."  

At your obvious mockery, Minghao's scowl only deepens, not that he really minds. Your sweet words have his heart thudding loudly in his chest in spite of his protests.  

"Stop being so cheesy. You're only saying this because you know that I like it, aren't you?"  

"I'm saying it because I like it," you answer. "It suits you. I'm about to use it again."  

You pause for a beat. "Darling," you say, this time cycling between English, Korean, and Mandarin. "Yeobo. Xīngān."  

This time, Minghao can't help but chuckle. He's definitely going to be having a good time tonight.  

"Are you going to spend the rest of the night calling me that?" he questions, finally having to pause at a red light. He turns to look at you for a few moments. "Just so I know what to expect."  

"Do you want me to?" you ask right back, your eyebrows raised slightly.  

"If you did," he starts, the words coming out before he even fully registers them, "I wouldn't stop you."  

The light turns green. The cars in front of you move forward a bit, and that means that you have to as well. The moment passes ever so slightly as Minghao is forced to lurch forward, to turn the corner that will finally have you at the barbecue place you'd recommended.  

You look ahead, away, the smile on your face widening just a bit. And because he said he wouldn't mind, because he'd given you something akin to a go-ahead—  

"Alright, xīngān," you say softly.  

The term of affection in your voice has Minghao's heartbeat rising, the nickname ringing in his ears, filling his chest with a sort of sweetness at the sound of it. It was like music to his ears, he thinks, the way you say it, the way it sounds.  

Once again, he can't help the smile that finds a place on his face, though he hides it by turning away to concentrate on the road ahead, trying to focus on it instead of the way his heart just won't stop racing in his chest.

The meal is comfortable. You talk about everything and nothing; you take turns cooking the meat. If sometimes you fall silent, neither of you feel the need to fill that quiet. You're so assured in each other's presence that we're fine to just be.

It's easy, with you— easy to relax in a way that he sometimes can't with others. He feels comfortable with you, safe around you, and he doesn't really have to think about what words he uses or the right thing to say.

You make it easy for him. And he's grateful for it.

As the night continues, though, the light conversation seems to eventually die down. Not that it bothers him; no, as Minghao has said before, the two of you do well with silence.

In the quiet that now surrounds the two of you, though, his mind begins to wander. A thought that has been in the back of his mind since earlier that night resurfaces again.

"Xīngān," he begins tentatively, his eyes still on the grill in front of him as if staring at it is supposed to give him some strength. Once again, he finds himself turning to Mandarin for the question, the words feeling like home on his tongue.

It feels, somehow, more fitting to ask you this question in the language that's his, one that he's comfortable and practiced in. "Do you believe in fate?"

Mìngyùn. Fate. Your mouth soundlessly tries out the word, the two syllables lolling on your tongue.  

"Like— the red thread of fate," you say, just a little dumbly, as you contemplate Minghao's question. You don't even notice the way you've switched over to Mandarin to match his pace. "Like that kind of fate? Or something else?"  

He takes a beat before he answers, trying to figure out how to word his question, how to express what he means in a way that makes sense, even to himself. "I mean that kind of fate," he clarifies. "Like, soulmates."  

"Do you?" you ask suddenly, throwing the query back to him.  

"I do."  

"What version of the red string of fate do you believe in?"  

He hesitates when you ask him the question, not quite sure how to explain the kind of fate he believes in. "I believe in things that are inevitable."  

"I mean— I believe in things that are destined," he continues, trying to elaborate. "I believe the people— the ones who are supposed to be together— will always find each other, in a way, no matter what happens. No matter how much time passes, or what obstacles there are between them."  

The way the corner of your mouth twitches when he says the word inevitable sets something ablaze inside him. 

He knows the look you're giving him is just one of interest, not a look of affection, but to him, it feels like a look of affection.  

Your lips twist into a slightly rueful smile as you take a moment to flip the meat on the grill, trying to keep it from burning. It's your turn to keep your gaze evasive as you answer. 

"I'm not sure if I believe in fate," you say, your Mandarin deliberately careful and slow. "Or soulmates. Not in the way that you do, at least."  

The words strike a painful sort of ache in his chest and Minghao finds himself having to bite down on the inside of his lip, trying to quell the way his heart seems to clench at the confession.  

This time, you slide into Korean, desperate to get your point across in the language that you know, in the tongue where you won’t be misconstrued. "I want to. I want to believe that soulmates exist— that there's someone out there for all of us," you say with a little more firmness, the change in speech giving you some more conviction.

"But I think that if soulmates do exist, they're not found; they're made." You pause to bring your gaze back up to Minghao. "People meet, they get a good feeling, and they get to work building a relationship. And that will lead to the inevitable."  

He's not quite sure why it feels like a loss, somehow, to no longer be speaking in Mandarin, and it makes his fingers itch for something to do. There's a moment where Minghao has to process the words you say, the way you express yourself so firmly and deliberately, as if you've given this some thought. Slowly, he gives a nod. "Like working in a relationship. Like making it work."  

"Like making it work," you concede.  

You gently place the last pieces of meat on Minghao's plate. "The concept of the red string of fate has always scared me," you admit, your mouth twitching upward in a slightly wistful smile. "What if the person on the other end follows the string only to realize they don't like what they find?"  

Minghao's gaze drifts down to the plate of food you've assembled for him, a gesture that feels oddly domestic, somehow, to have someone prepare a plate for him, and his heart gives a warm, affectionate little squeeze. 

He looks back up when you speak, his face a carefully stoic mask in spite of the way his heart is giving a painful thud, thud, thud inside his chest.  

"I think..." he begins slowly, his eyes still on you, the words leaving his lips careful and deliberate, as if he's trying to pick them out slowly from a tangled mess in his mind.

There's an intensity to his gaze, a gravity that's hard to miss. "I think even if the person on the other end of the string doesn't like what they find, it's what they're supposed to have. It's what they're destined for."  

"Ah. Destiny."  

Minghao had stuck with Mandarin; you say it in Korean. The two words— mìngyùn, unmyeong— are the two faces of the same coin.  

"And who do you think I'm destined for, xīngān?" you ask with just the right amount of teasing, making it a point to still refer to Minghao with the Mandarin term of ‘darling’ despite speaking the rest of the question in Korean.  

It's supposed to be nothing more than a good-natured joke, but Minghao feels the sudden urge to be honest.

He knows it's a joke, he knows it's meant to be a lighthearted question, but something in the back of his head, something sharp and cruel, his traitorous, selfish heart keeps repeating the question back to him: Who do you think I'm destined for? 

The thought that you'd be destined for anyone but him makes him feel like there's something lodged in his throat, something painful and sharp, and he wants to reach out and grab you, hold you, pull you tight against him and just never let go.

But instead he just looks at you and he forces the corners of his lips to tug up into a smile. "You're destined for someone wonderful," he says in his soft Mandarin, his trademark sincerity.

It's a non-answer; a cop-out, a way to avoid confessing things he shouldn't, but it's the best he can manage at this moment, when I wish it was me is screaming so loud in his head, it's all he can hear.

You smile softly.

Minghao had told the truth. You are destined for someone wonderful. 

He just wishes he could have been more specific. 

The next time he sees you is ahead of the boys’ Japanese showcase. Minghao had been lagging behind in the airport; he'd managed to get a few moments of shut eye on the plane, but it did little to stave off the exhaustion he still felt.

He walks a few steps behind Seungcheol, his eyes flitting idly through the crowd, until they land on you, walking slightly ahead.

You were already moving efficiently, keeping your gaze straight as you walked next to Seungcheol, your eyes focused and unflinching even as the press and fans yelled out at you.

Minghao's eyes don't leave your figure, following you and Seungcheol as you navigate the throngs of airport patrons with practiced ease. He's almost unsettled by how effortless you seemed— walking through the crowd as if it were nothing more than a casual stroll through the park, your expression set and unwavering as you translate for Seungcheol in a low, firm tone.

Once you finally get past the front doors of the airport, there's a lull as the boys all pile into a twelve-seater van. You stay by the door, finally stealing seconds to see each of them as they pass by you.  

Vernon dips his head in a nod. Mingyu throws you an exaggerated wink. Jun mouths 'hello' to you in Japanese. 

And then it's Minghao's turn to get in the van, to pass by you. There's not much either of you can do or say yet, considering the fact that there are still fans and press scrutinizing your every move, but he still has this. A moment of acknowledgment, however he deems fit.  

Minghao's mouth tugs up at one corner as he sees you smile at him, the sight immediately making something warm bloom in his chest.  

He can't help the subtle, almost instinctual reaction as he stops ever so slightly in passing you. He wants to say something, but words elude him.  

Instead, his hand just grazes against your wrist— the merest press of his fingers against the bare skin of your arm. It's a tiny gesture, but one that speaks volumes.

For the rest of the car ride to the hotel, Minghao struggles.

He's stuck in a car full of members, all exhausted from the flight, all loud and noisy and rowdy, and the van feels suddenly stifling. He spends most of the time looking out the window, trying to focus on whatever he sees.

Anything to distract himself from thoughts of you and the ghost of your soft, warm skin under his fingers.

The next time you're slated to see the group is in the dressing room before their showcase. It's hours later. Hours you spend translating, liaising, transcribing. The dressing room is as lively as ever, most of the members having already changed into their stage outfits. Several of them are sitting around, idly eating snacks or watching videos.  

You carefully push open the door. "Hey," you greet, and you're met with the instant chorus of thirteen boys welcoming you.  

Seungkwan excitedly calls out, "Hey, hey, hey!"  

Joshua gives you a warm smile. Chan waves exaggeratedly.  

You let out a huff of laughter, already acutely familiar with the boys' habits. "Just wanted to check in on everyone before the showcase," you say as you lean against the doorframe.

Minghao is sitting on a couch in the corner of the room, his eyes on you as you say your reason for coming to see them. 

"We're all good here," Jeonghan answers, one hand propping his chin up. "You look like you could use a sit, though."

Your laugh is just a little strained, your smile a touch forced. But your façade stays intact, even as you shake your head. "I've still got some preparations to do," you say lightly, and then you shift gears before anyone can press. "How was the flight?"

"It was fine," Seokmin pipes up. "You know, nothing out of the usual. We were well-behaved."

"Well-behaved," Wonwoo echoes from the couch. "If by well-behaved, you mean Soonyoung and Vernon got extremely handsy in the plane."

"Hey," Vernon protests, whipping his head around to look at Wonwoo, "don't say it like that!"

On the couch, Jihoon lets out an amused snort, shaking his head in fond, exasperated disbelief. "No, no, please," he encourages, his voice laced with sarcasm, "tell everyone how you two almost got us yelled at by the stewards because you were roughhousing over some food."

Soonyoung pouts, his expression instantly adopting a look of exaggerated innocence. "I don't know what you're talking about," he insists. "I was a perfect angel."

While the other boys are all busy ribbing on Vernon and Soonyoung, Minghao makes his way over to where you're standing against the doorframe.

He stops when he's standing next to you, and the corner of his mouth tugs up into an amused smile as he takes in your distant, almost out of it expression. When he speaks, his voice is soft enough for you to hear but low enough that the others can't, barely more than a whisper. 

"You look tired."

You give him a sheepish smile as you pat out invisible wrinkles on your linen blazer. "Hao," you greet quietly, still a bit hesitant to use xīngān in front of his members.

Your gaze flickers briefly to the rest of the room before you switch to Mandarin, a clear indication that you want your next words to be for Minghao and Minghao alone.  

"I am tired," you admit in his native tongue. "But it's nothing crazy. Just the usual exhaustion."  

"You always work too hard," he responds, matching your switch to Mandarin. His gaze sweeps over your form, taking in the weary lines of your frame, the subtle stiffness in your stance. "You look like you'll fall over any second."  

You roll your shoulders a bit, unconsciously leaning closer toward him. "It's my back, still," you confess. "Making things a little harder than usual. I really will get it checked when we're back in Korea."  

A concerned frown tugs at the corners of Minghao's mouth when he hears you say it's your back, his eyes sweeping over your frame once again. "How long has it been bothering you?" he asks, his gaze sweeping over you.  

He tries not to seem too obvious about it, but he steps a little bit closer, shifting a fraction of an inch closer in case you do fall over. His arm brushes up against yours, the contact between the two of you almost imperceptible.  

"This morning," you say with a rueful smile, your hand reaching behind to massage the small of your back from over your layers of clothing. "The plane was a bit cramped."  

Minghao's eyes narrow a fraction of an inch when he hears the reason, one of his eyebrows lifting slightly in a mixture of surprise and annoyance. "I told you to get it checked before the flight," he says.  

You give Minghao a look that's mildly exasperated and wholly exhausted. "I'm already booked to see a physician once this trip is over," you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest as you look up at Minghao.  

"You always say that," Minghao responds, the hint of annoyance in his voice a clear indication of just how frustrated he is. "It's clearly bothering you every day. If you just took some time off, maybe even just a week, maybe you'd—"  

"Minghao."

The quiet, stern way you say his name— just his name; not Hao, not xīngān— cuts right through his frustrated tirade. A flicker of surprise passes across Minghao's features, the almost snap in your tone shutting him up.

"I'm going to go," you inform him stiffly, slipping back into Korean and away from the language you reserved for each other. "We need to prepare for the showcase."

His jaw clenches, a muscle in his cheek twitching as he tries to keep his mouth shut for once, biting back the words he wants to say, the protests that are so close to leaving his lips. He lets out another huff of air, forcing his expression to stay neutral. 

"Yeah," he replies in the same language, the one word filled with annoyance. "See you."

When the showcase rolls around, you maintain a backstage presence. Your role, as always, entails that you pay complete attention to the boys as they speak. Whenever they address the crowd as a whole, you translate their Korean into Japanese.

For some reason, hearing the familiar sound of your voice coming out of the speakers, the smoothness of your Japanese, still feels somewhat calming to Minghao. In the chaos of lights and loud music, hearing the rhythm of your words through the speakers makes it feel like, at least for the moment, you're still right there beside him.

When the songs pass and the showcase ends, the members are all still riding the high of the excitement of their performance, the energy of their fans still buzzing in the atmosphere.

They all make their way backstage, the hum of their conversations filling the air, a sense of excitement and satisfaction, each and every one of them energized. Minghao, once again, makes his way over to where you're standing, his eyes on you, his expression almost intense.

You don't immediately notice Minghao approaching because a staff member is talking to you in rapid Japanese about some interviews you need to coordinate, need to play the role of interpreter for. You're trying to bargain for a moment's break, but it's a losing battle.

The staff then suddenly folds into a bow, and only then do you realize that Minghao had come up to you. You dip your head in an equally respectful bow of acknowledgement.

In Japanese, you tiredly assure the staff member you'll be there for the press circus; she leaves Minghao and you alone at your reassurance. You flash Minghao a weary smile, slipping, this time, into Korean. "Good job with the showcase," you say benevolently. "You did well."

He can't help the subtle frown that forms on his face, the way his eyebrows furrow in concern. The fact that you're once again hiding behind that professional exterior of yours, the friendly, polite smile you're shooting him, does nothing to soothe his frustration.

"Thanks," he mutters, his tone somewhat clipped.

He hesitates for a moment, his gaze sweeping over you. "Hey," he eventually says. "Come with me for a second."

You cast a glance around backstage. The boys are all off doing their own things— chugging water, ribbing each other, taking photos. In a gaggle of thirteen, it's easy to fly under the radar at any given time.

"You have a magazine interview in fifteen minutes," you tell Minghao, clueing him in on the conversation you had with staff just moments prior. "We can't really go anywhere—"

"I know," Minghao responds, his tone perhaps a little sharper than he'd meant it to be, frustration getting the better of him.

He takes a quick glance around the backstage area, confirming that the others are all occupied enough that they won't notice, before his gaze lands back on you. "We won't be long," he assures you, already grabbing your wrist.

His grasp on your wrist is firm, his hand strong and his fingers wrapping around the limb easily, pulling you along with him, with no room for any protest. He doesn't break his pace until he's found a small, secluded bathroom, pulling you inside and shutting the door behind the two of you before anyone could notice.

"Minghao," you hiss under your breath, still obviously pissed in the way you forgo both his nickname and pet name. "You can't just drag me off when we have work."  

Even in his already frustrated state, Minghao finds himself momentarily distracted by your pissed off tone, and the use of his name without a nickname or pet name. He likes you calling him by some form of a cute or affectionate moniker far more than just plain, unadorned Minghao.  

"We still have a couple more minutes," he retorts, mirroring your tone even as his hand slides down to lace your fingers together.  

His eyes are heavy on you, his expression intense even as he takes an unabashed, close-up look at your face, studying the weariness in your expression, and the strain that's clearly weighing down on you.  

He makes a move to reach down, his gaze on your cheek, to brush away a strand of stray, loose hair. His heart lurches when he sees the way your expression softens subtly, even when you're still trying to be mad at him. The way you immediately intertwine your fingers in his— God.  

"We look very suspicious right now," you say dryly, your free hand gesturing vaguely to the fact that Minghao practically has you pinned against the bathroom wall. "Is this what you pulled me away for?"  

"We'll make it quick," he manages to reply, sounding slightly hoarse, before closing the already-minimal distance between the two of you, one arm snaking around your waist.  

"We shouldn't—" you protest weakly, because there's just some things you can't explain away. Like how Minghao and you might be caught hugging in this bathroom when you were colleagues at worst, good friends at best. "We're going to get in trouble."  

"We won't," he responds, his tone firm, stubborn.  

His other hand comes up to rest at the back of your head, pulling you in even closer, burying your face in his chest, the other arm still looped firmly around your waist. He lets out a sharp exhale of air, the frustration and tension of the moment melting into something akin to relief. 

"Just—" he mumbles, his breath hot in your ear. "Let me hold you. Just a little— for a second."  

A small flicker of relief fills his chest when he feels the tension ease as a result of his embrace, the way you lean against him, almost as if you're allowing yourself just to relax. To melt against his body the way you almost never did in public.  

When you mumble Mandarin against his chest, your words are slightly muffled. "I'm sorry about earlier," you whisper. "I was really stressed."  

"I know," he responds, just as quietly. "I'm sorry too."  

This was how it was with the two of you— the quick-tempered arguments, the stubborn disagreements, and then the inevitable apologies that always followed. Minghao knew he was stubborn, maybe even a little irritable, and he would admit that he could've handled his response better.

But, for some reason— in the moment, at least— all of that tension that had been between the two of you in that moment just evaporated in the embrace. "You're working yourself to the bone," he mutters quietly, into your collarbone.

He knows how hard you work, in general, but it's become increasingly worse as of late. The endless translation, the interviews, the subtitles and scripts. It all seemed to be getting too much, even for you.

"I know it's not my place to tell you this but—" he continues, his voice becoming even more hoarse and heavy in worry. "You need to take better care of yourself. You can't just keep pushing yourself like this. Not like you've been doing. You're going to burn out at this rate."

It's just the way the two of you were— you, the overworked, over-stressed, and over-tired, and him, almost constantly worried about your general well-being, worried about you working yourself to actual exhaustion.

The moment you gently run your fingers through his hair, he instantly melts against you even more, practically nuzzling against your shoulder.

"You do have some right to tell me this. We're friends," you sigh, tilting your head to press your lips to the side of Minghao's temple. "And you're right— I'll look into taking a medical leave for a bit, once we get back home."  

"Good," he responds, his voice quiet but firm. "You need a break. And I—" he pauses, hesitating.  

He doesn't like seeing you like that, he wants to say. He doesn't like seeing you so tired and so stressed every day. He doesn't like how you barely have any time together anymore. He doesn't like seeing you overexert yourself so much.  

He stops himself from saying it out loud, instead letting out a soft huff before continuing. "I really worry about you, you know?" he mutters against your shoulder.  

"I know, xīngān," you respond, slipping into Mandarin in a bid to comfort Minghao a little more. A beat. And then, ever so quietly: "I worry about you, too."  

You slide your hand up and down his back. "We're both fools," you whisper with a slight huff of laughter.  

"Yeah," he agrees with an exhale of a laugh at your last words. "We are both fools."  

But we're fools for each other, his mind unhelpfully reminds him as he dares to hold you for just a moment more.

He just has to go and mess it all up by insisting, "I wish you’d let people take care of you."

People, meaning him. He had meant to say I wish you’d let me take care of you, but instead something entirely else came out. He knows he ought to back down the moment he feels you tense under his grasp, but Minghao was nothing if not adamant.

"I don’t need to be taken care of," you persist. 

Minghao huffs into your hair. "That’s bullshit and you know it."

"Hao—"

"It’s not a sign of weakness—"

"You keep treating me like—"

"I’m not—"

"Minghao!"

You’ve all but pulled away now, your earlier softness replaced with a new kind of tension. It’s not the same tiredness from being overworked; no, it’s the frustration of the two of you trying to speak over each other. The push and pull of your words. Your mutual inability to communicate just what you mean. 

Minghao’s fingers ball into fists at his sides to hide his almost trembling hands. It’s all he can do to keep himself from reaching back out for you.     

"I'll go ahead," you whisper decisively, your gaze fixed on the door. "I'll see you at the magazine interview."

An almost visceral, physical pain shoots through Minghao's chest at the mention of you leaving. His mind screams no, don't leave, don't go. But he swallows down his own irrational, impulsive desires, his own selfish longing for you.

"I— yeah," Minghao responds slowly. "I'll meet you there."

He watches silently, almost helplessly, as you make a beeline for the door.

The interview is with NYLON JAPAN. You interpret and translate for both the interviewer and the boys, once again acting as an off-camera presence— an intent, constant figure quietly relaying questions and answers.  

There's some benefit in SEVENTEEN being thirteen members strong. That way, Minghao is in the second row, some distance away from you. If you avoid his gaze, it almost feels negligible.

For the duration of the interview, Minghao can hardly concentrate on the questions and answers being traded between the members and the interviewer. His focus is firmly drawn towards you.  

He can't help but glance in your direction every so often. Every time your gaze accidentally meets his, it's like a jolt of electricity straight to his chest, his stomach clenching at the painful realization of how close you are and how far away you feel.

When the interviewer begins to ask member-specific questions, you do your job as well as you always do. The first two are for Seungcheol, then Chan. And then, of course, there it is.

You nod a bit as the interviewer poses his question. "Jun and Minghao," you translate, your voice wavering imperceptibly on the second name. "You two are the members that have given up a life in your home country in exchange for being an idol. How are you able to cope with that?"

As you translate Jun’s answer to the interviewer, Minghao can hardly focus on the actual words he's saying. He’s only half-listening as he watches the subtle flutter of your eyelashes, the slight parting of your lips, the crinkle in your forehead as you concentrate hard on getting the Japanese translation perfect.

His chest feels tight, like there's a band wrapped around his entire body, constricting his airflow.

When your gaze finally moves back to him, locking eyes with his own, a rush of breath leaves his lungs, his heart jumping in his throat. The look in your eyes, the distance between the two of you— it’s nothing short of exaggerated.

For a brief moment, he's not answering a question for a Japanese magazine interview. He's answering a question for you. 

"It's hard," Minghao answers, his voice quiet and low, somewhat hoarse. "It’s really hard and lonely sometimes."

Every word that leaves his lips feels like a struggle to get out, like they're getting stuck in his throat, choking him.

"But I have the members, and we have the fans," he continues, a quiet yearning in his eyes. "And so it’s bearable," he says, despite the pit still present in his stomach, despite the ache of needing more.

He keeps his gaze focused on you, letting every word he says hold a meaning beyond the answer to the interviewer’s question— as if he’s answering for you and not the interviewer. But he has to keep his words vague, just in case those damned cameras picked up on his words and the way he looks at you.

"It's bearable," he repeats, swallowing hard, letting his eyes convey what he really means, even if his words can’t. You make it bearable.

There are some things that don't need to be translated. The pinched look on Minghao's face. The way he's openly staring at you. The subtle shift among the members— all of whom seem to pick up on something Minghao isn’t saying.

"Is that all?" you ask Minghao in Korean, your voice steady as ever despite the flicker of emotion in your gaze.

That aching, yearning expression is still present on his face as he responds. 

"Yeah," he says. "That’s all."

Minghao's phone is tucked under his pillow, the device set to vibrate.

He jolts awake the moment it begins to buzz, a habit he had grown after years of being under the spotlight and on the road. His hand flies out to grab the phone.

His eyes bleary, he blinks a few times to clear his vision. A slight smile involuntarily tugs at his lip when he sees your message, his eyes skimming over the contents of it several times.

i'm sorry about today. (yesterday, technically?) i hope you're resting right now. ily.

"Idiot," he murmurs quietly to himself.

You don't have anything to apologize for, he replies quickly. It's not your fault. I'm the one who should be sorry. I should've been more patient with you.

How are you? Are you okay?

i'm ok. fell asleep on the couch and woke up suddenly. but did i wake you? it's so late. you should be asleep.

A quiet sigh leaves Minghao's lips as he reads your response, a part of him feeling a pang of guilt, as if knowing he was the reason you were awake right now.

You did wake me. But don't worry. I'm glad you texted me. Can you call me?

A beat. 

let me just step out onto my balcony so i don't wake my roommates.

The image of you carefully sneaking out onto the balcony to talk, just so you wouldn't wake your roommates, briefly flashes through Minghao's mind. It reminds him of his own sleeping roommates a mere few feet away from him.

He sighs softly, quietly pulling himself out of bed, careful to not disturb Mingyu and Jun as he quietly makes his way out into the balcony from the door to his left.

The air is cold and the night sky is clear. Those are the two of the three things Minghao registers when he steps out on the balcony of his hotel room. The third thing comes after you call him and there’s a slightly amused edge to your tone as you say, "Look to your right, xīngān."

He turns to look to his right just as you asked, his eyes searching the balcony area in the distance. He can't quite make out any details on your figure in the low lighting, but when his eyes finally land on you, his heart skips a beat all the same.

"Found you," he murmurs.

"I didn’t mean to wake you," you say softly. "We could have talked in the morning, you know."

"I know," Minghao responds. He leans against the railing of his own balcony, the metal cold to the touch, his eyes fixed on you. He's sure you can't see him clearly, but it doesn’t matter at this moment.  

He was looking at you, and that was enough.

"I wanted to talk to you," he says simply, the words said without a trace of shame, just quiet honesty.

"What did you want to talk about?" you ask, giving him the liberty to set the pace for tonight, to pick and choose his battles.

There are a lot of things Minghao could say right now, a lot of things he wants to say. But instead, he settles for, "How are you?"

"Better now," you say simply, your gaze still fixed on Minghao in the distance. And it's the truth, even if the second half of your answer goes unspoken. Better now, that you're talking to him.

He stands there silently, still watching you from a distance. Despite his earlier confidence in talking to you, he's suddenly feeling uncharacteristically timid. Tongue-tied, almost, with his words caught in his throat. He can’t bring himself to speak for a moment, a part of him still feeling guilty about earlier.

He swallows the tightness in his throat, taking a deep breath, before finally forcing the words out. "I'm sorry," he mumbles. "For what happened in the bathroom."

Perhaps it's the years you’ve known each other, the herculean task you’ve both faced. But Minghao and you know better than anyone that things were so easily lost in translation, that there’s only so many emotions that can be grasped in all the languages of the world.

"We just have to get better at using our words, I guess," you sigh. 

Something in his chest settles at your response— at the understanding in it, at the fact that you don't hate him. The knowledge washes over him like a sudden warmth, the guilt he'd felt earlier slowly evaporating with each passing moment.

"We do," he replies quietly.

There's a comfort, still, in being just a couple of balconies away. How you can make out each other's vague silhouettes in the late evening of this foreign country.

It feels like you're standing on the precipice of something, of possibility.  

But instead of confronting it, you opt to dance the line a little longer. Your eyes are still trained on the sky as you slip into Mandarin.  

"The stars out here are so clear, xīngān," you muse thoughtfully. "It's beautiful, don't you think?"

The change in language registers quietly in Minghao's mind, his brain taking a second to get used to it after speaking in Korean and stilted Japanese most of the day.  

He looks up at the night sky for a moment in quiet contemplation, taking in the beauty of the stars as you'd described them, before turning his gaze back to the shadowed outline of your figure in the distance.  

Something about the sight, about you, makes his heart ache a little bit. Beautiful, you had said about the stars, but he’s not looking at them. 

He responds softly, longingly, in Mandarin, his voice almost a whisper in the night air. "It really is."

The next day, you both get on separate flights back to Seoul. As Minghao had poked and prodded you to do, you finally take the medical leave from work— a one-week block, which was the longest you’d ever gone away from PLEDIS since you first started nine years ago.

Roughly three days into your break, Minghao is in dance practice when he feels his phone buzzing in his pocket. He frowns when he glances at the screen and sees your name. 

can i call? 

The sight of the message, so unlike your usual lighthearted air, makes his heart drop instantly in his chest. There's no text-speak, no cutesy words, no emoji— just a simple question. He drops whatever he's doing, ignoring the questioning stares from the members as he steps out into the hallway and quickly dials your number without a second thought.

"Xīngān," he greets you, a little breathless from the rush he'd felt upon seeing your message. There's a hint of concern in his voice as his heart races in his chest, his mind whirling with thoughts. 

He doesn't even bother with pleasantries or small talk, diving straight into the issue at hand. "Is everything alright? What's wrong?"

Much to Minghao's chagrin, you bother with pleasantries. "Hey," you say back in Mandarin when he greets you. For a moment, you hesitate; like you're not quite sure which language you want to speak to Minghao in.  

"I'm sorry," you say in Korean. "Did I bother you?"  

Minghao shakes his head even if you can't see him. He's silent for a moment, mulling over his words before replying, "No. Never. You didn't bother me, xīngān."  

The words are uttered quietly, his voice soft and gentle, as if he's afraid that the volume of his own voice might somehow scare you away.  

"I finally visited a doctor for my back," you say, finally. "It's a herniated disc, and I'm being slotted in for a surgery in two days."  

His heart drops into his chest at your admission, the words feeling like a sudden weight upon him. Herniated disc.  

The words feel like a sudden strike to his heart, his mind racing with questions and concerns. "A herniated... disc," he repeats, his voice a little breathless, a little shocked, as he quickly tries to process what he'd just heard.  

He doesn't realize he's switched to Mandarin, his own words spoken in a rush. "How bad is it? What are the doctors saying?"  

You stubbornly stick to Korean, likely because it's easier to accurately relay your medical results in the same language you'd received them in. "It's not bad," you say firmly. "The operation is an open discectomy on my lower back. It will take at most an hour, and I'll only need to stay in the hospital for up to three days."  

There's a flicker of irritation in Minghao's eyes at your insistence to continue speaking in your language, frustrated at the lack of comprehension and understanding it brought. He wants to protest, to argue, to tell you to just use Mandarin— but it disappears when he hears your firm voice, when he realizes what it is you're telling him.  

An hour-long operation. Three days in the hospital. It didn't sound bad, per se, and logically, he knew that you would probably be fine. It still didn't make him worry any less.  

"What are the risks?" Minghao asks after a moment.  

Normally, he would have just looked up whatever answers he wanted, searching it up in medical databases and online articles. But, for some reason, he's suddenly terrified to hear anything other than the sound of your voice— your words, reassuring him that everything will be okay.  

"No change to the back pains," you rattle off. "A five to fifteen percent chance of a revision discectomy if the herniated disc returns. A lower chance of an unstable spine. It's— they're truly not bad risks, Hao."  

"Five to fifteen perc— no, that's not a 'truly not bad risk'," Minghao counters immediately, his voice sharp and frustrated, as if scolding a child that was being too nonchalant.  

"You— it's surgery, xīngān—" he continues in Mandarin, his tone almost pleading. "Five to fifteen percent chance— it— what if something goes wrong?"  

He feels a little bit frustrated at his sudden loss for words in both languages, as if his own limited vocabulary couldn’t express the rush of emotions that had suddenly overwhelmed him.  

"Hey," you say softly into the receiver, this time switching over to Mandarin. Because it had always been more soothing to him, more familiar in the sense that mattered. "Take a moment and breathe for me, xīngān."

There's a sense of calm that washes over him as he finally hears the change in language. He takes a deep, shuddering inhale, followed by a slow exhale, his eyes squeezed shut as he mentally counts down seconds.

Slowly, the panic, the fear he'd felt gradually starts to subside, leaving his heart and breath steadier— but not completely unbothered.

After a moment, you go on in Mandarin, calm and measured. "It's a surgery with a high success rate of sixty to ninety percent," you maintain. "I need it to address the persistent back pains, xīngān. If I don't do it now, the pain will only get worse and more of my spine could be affected."  

You pause, letting the words sink in. "These doctors are good," you go on. "They do their job well."  

Minghao takes several more slow, steady breaths as he listens, the sound of your voice alone calming him down, helping him keep his mind clear and focused. He knows you're speaking to him in Mandarin because it's easier to communicate with him this way, but he can't help but notice the subtle firmness, the reassurance in your tone.  

The statistics, the numbers, the facts— they're hard to deny, and as he takes another shaky inhale and exhale, he realizes that you're right. "Sixty to ninety percent success rate," he repeats to himself, his voice a soft murmur.  

"Sixty to ninety percent," you reaffirm. Then, in a more shy tone, you add, "I'm sorry for springing this on you. I— I just didn't know who else to call."  

He notices it then, the meekness in your words, the small hint of vulnerability in your voice. Any remaining anxiety he felt from the situation suddenly dissolves with the realization that you needed this.  

You had called him because you’d needed to hear a familiar, comforting voice, a sense of reassurance after what you'd just confessed. He swallows back his fears, his worries, any thoughts about the risk and that lingering, unpleasant feeling in his chest, because you needed him to be calm, to be steadfast.  

"Don't... Don't apologize, xīngān," he says almost immediately after. He swallows again before continuing, mentally berating himself for letting his anxiety and irrational fears take over his brain. "No, don't— I'm glad you called. I'll always pick up the phone."  

"Are you free tomorrow?" you ask tentatively. "We could grab a meal before I have to check into the hospital."  

As he hears the question, his mind immediately begins to run through his schedule for the next day.  

He knows what he should do. He knows what the logical part of his brain, the part that's in control of his rationality, is supposed to do. But when he thinks of you— of you, in the hospital, waiting to undergo a surgery (it's safe, it's a safe surgery, he chants in his brain) alone, without him—  

"I'll clear my schedule," he tells you.  

"No, you don't have to," you say quickly, falling back on Korean in an attempt to express your haste. "It's okay. We can just meet once the operation is over—"  

"I'm clearing my schedule,” he repeats, his voice firm, final. “I’m going to be there. We’re eating before the surgery, and I’m going to be at the hospital with you afterwards. I’m not letting you go to the hospital alone."  

A beat. While there are things that Minghao and you have yet to clear about the nature of your friendship, one thing stands true regardless of label.

"You're too good to me, Xu Minghao," you say softly, shifting to his mother tongue for the sake of sentiment. 

He lets the sound of your voice, the familiar language, wash over him. As it does, it soothes the anxiety that still gnaws at the corners of his mind.

"It’s…” he begins quietly, a small, almost sheepish smile forming on his lips, “not really…”

There’s a moment of silence before he sighs softly, his expression growing more earnest as he continues. “Being good to you is the easy part.”

"And it’s xīngān, not Xu Minghao," he adds quickly, and he’s sure you can hear the pout in his voice. 

It draws a laugh out of you— one that's still quiet, but a lot more genuine. A moment of levity. A brightness that only Minghao could truly give you. The sound of your laughter, even over the phone, is enough to lift his spirits, his heart swelling in his chest in relief.

"Xīngān," you amend, and your voice is just a little too fond to be friendly. 

For a moment, Minghao can convince himself that all will be alright in the world again. 

The discectomy is relatively uneventful, which can only mean that it was good. There's no way of Minghao knowing this, of course, not as he spends the entire morning in a group meeting he can't really skip.

Regardless, all the members can tell that Minghao's heart isn't really in it. That he's physically at the PLEDIS building, sure, but his mind is on you— somewhere in an operating room, under anesthesia.

Seungcheol broaches the topic carefully. "Ah, it’s their surgery today, isn’t it?" the leader asks almost too casually, to no one in particular. There's a murmur of agreement across the table of thirteen boys. Some shifty, knowing glances at Minghao.

Minghao nods in response to Seungcheol's question, his expression still entirely too… anxious. "Yeah," he replies, keeping his voice as controlled as he possibly can, even as he feels his dread build up inside of him. "I'll be going to see them, after this."

It doesn't go amiss to anyone that Minghao doesn't even bother to extend the invite to anyone else. Jun is the only one who looks vaguely miffed about it, but they're all mostly understanding of how different Minghao felt with you compared to their own concern, their own affection.

Joshua offers the next best thing. 

"I was thinking we could chip in to send flowers," he says, and there's easy assent across the group. Minghao feels a small flicker of warmth in his chest at the thought of how you'd receive these messages of their care and concern.

As Vernon and Jeonghan debate what arrangement to send, Jun throws a glance at Minghao and almost smiles. Almost.

"What flowers did you get them?" Jun says in Mandarin, so no one else in the room can pick up how quickly the other Chinese man had clocked that Minghao was already three steps ahead.

Minghao glances over to his friend, his expression unreadable, as he answers in the same language. "Sunflowers," he replies, not missing a beat.

Jun can only smile faintly at Minghao's answers. "Sunflowers for your sunshine," Jun teases good-naturedly, still in the tongue that none of the other members will understand.

There's something about the way the Mandarin word for 'sunshine'— yángguāng— that sounds just so right. The Chinese term falls from the older man's lips like a blessing, a wish for good luck and health and goodness for all those involved. 

Minghao isn't sure if he'd imagined it, not exactly, but he sees the way Jun looks at him right after he says the word. For a split second, Minghao's chest tightens, his throat clenching up, because maybe Jun thinks his feelings for you are obvious.

Maybe Jun thinks he's been obvious all this time. In his head, Minghao had already been thinking it— yángguāng, sunshine, mine— And it's only now that he realizes that he was never the only one who saw it that way. That saw you and Minghao as something inevitable. 

He glances at Jun, eyes softening, filled with almost a wave of gratitude.

"Sunflowers for my sunshine," he repeats, hoping it will somehow manifest like a prophecy. 

You wake up after your operation with one less disc in your spine and one too many floral arrangements in your hospital room. As you blink against the vestiges of your anesthesia, you register the absurd, almost comical amount of flowers piled on the couch, and it doesn't take you more than a couple of seconds to realize it came from the boys.  

One of whom is dozing off in a chair next to you. You watch with mild amusement as Minghao's head dips in his restless slumber, his fingers still surprisingly firm around the bouquet of sunflowers in his lap. The affection you feel for him then threatens to overwhelm you.  

You manage to tamp it down in favor of gently prompting, "Minghao."  

Your voice is still hoarse, still a little rough around the edges. Not quite enough to rouse him from his sleep. After two or so more attempts, you go for what you know will wake him up.  

"Xīngān," you call out with no shortage of fondness.  

The sound of your voice jolts Minghao awake, and he opens his eyes in an instant. For a moment, his vision is still blurry, the world around him seeming almost vague, fuzzy with sleep, but then it snaps into focus when he sees you.

When he sees you awake, alive, and looking at him. His heart does somersaults in his chest.

"Yángguāng," he answers, his voice low, soft and affectionate, barely above a whisper.

"That's a new one," you say in Mandarin; your voice is still scratchy, but your amusement is not any less evident.    

He thinks he'll never get tired of watching that. Of watching your lips move that way. "You like it?" Minghao asks.  

He doesn't need an answer to his question, because he already knows that you do— but he can't help himself, needing the confirmation, needing to hear your answer. The thought of calling you 'sunshine' isn't a new one, but saying it out loud to you for the first time, when you're awake? It feels like a miracle.  

"I could live with it," you answer with a soft smile— even though both Minghao and you knew that you would now never be able to live without it.  

Minghao wants to laugh at the way you shrug his question off, at the way you seem so nonchalant, even as you give him that sweet, sweet smile that is so bright that it could rival the very sun itself.  

Because he knows the truth. He knows you're happy about it. He knows you love it. He can tell it in the way you're looking at him, in the way your eyes glitter with affection.  

"I'm glad," he answers, playing right into your charade because he knows every little trick in your book.  

And then, in a fit of bravery— one that he almost feels like applauding himself for— he leans in to press a kiss to your temple.  

When he pulls away, the bouquet of sunflowers still clutched in his hands, he's sure he can see it. The happiness in your eyes. The sheer, blinding affection in your smile.  

"Thank you," you whisper earnestly. Partly because your voice is still shot; partly because you don't trust yourself to speak any louder. "For coming to see me."  

He has to swallow hard to regain control of his emotions, because he is so terribly, terribly in love. He laughs under his breath because he's not sure what to do about his feelings anymore. Maybe it's best to just throw himself off the cliff and see what happens, right?  

"I'll always come see you," he answers, instead, making a promise for the future.  

He leans in again with that thought on his mind, and he presses another kiss to your temple, softer, longer, his lips lingering against your skin for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.  

He pulls away to meet your gaze, and he almost feels like laughing at the way he can see his feelings reflecting in your eyes, shining in the pools of your irises. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you. How is he going to live with that?  

Minghao leans in again, but this time, he kisses the corner of your lips, right where your smile is.  

And it's astounding, really, just how terrible Minghao and you still are at this whole thing. Despite all the years between you, you still falter and stumble in getting your feelings across.  

There was always something. A job to do. A reputation to uphold. And now, a hospital bed, a recovery period.  

But, for once, you can only laugh breathlessly as Minghao gives you two more kisses, as you feel the upward curve of his lips against your face. Your heart stutters at the peck on the corner of your mouth; it's not quite what you both want, what you both need, but you'll take it. God, you'd take it.  

"Stop that," you try to chide in between your giggles. "Get off me, Hao—"

The sound of you laughing is like a revelation in Minghao's chest. As if a chord of tension that had been strung taut within him for so long had been cut.

He pulls back with a look of satisfaction on his face, that teasing grin playing on his lips as he does. "But why?" he asks in an absolutely, unbearably sweet tone, a tone that is laced with faux innocence, even though he knows why. You were recovering. You had to be careful.

A part of him is almost glad he hadn't kissed you properly. Because if he so much as feels the softness of your lips against his, he's not sure he'll be able to stop.

But God, does that make him want it even more— the fact that he can't, the fact that you're so close and still beyond his grasp. He forces himself to look elsewhere then and his gaze falls to the bouquet on his lap, to the flowers he'd brought you.

Sunflowers, because he doesn't think they make flowers that even compare to the brightness of your smile, or the way your eyes glitter when you laugh— at least, not flowers that make him think of you and you alone.

He holds the bouquet out to you. "Do you like them?" he can't help but laugh. He had chosen them and bought them for you, and yet, in true Minghao fashion, he finds himself still asking for your approval.

"I love them," you say easily, readily, already reaching out to take the arrangement from Minghao. 

Three sunflowers in full bloom, flanked by chamomile and irises and baby's-gypsophila. Your smile is bright and wide as you look down at it, as you hold it delicately. 

When you look back up at Minghao, there's that touch of amusement again. That tinge of disbelief that seems to wordlessly communicate, I can't believe you.  

"You didn't have to," you point out with a low chuckle, shifting slightly in your hospital bed as your fingers go imperceptibly tighter around his flowers. "But thank you."  

The sight of the smile on your face is enough to almost make him want to kiss you all over again.  

It's not the first time he'd given you an arrangement of flowers, but it's the first time it's made Minghao feel like he's just given you his heart, too.  

"No, I didn't," he agrees lightly, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the very tips of his fingers brushing against your soft skin. But I wanted to.

The boys all come to visit, one after the other. In small groups, in age order, until they have to be kicked out for being too noisy and potentially drawing too much attention to themselves. There are doctors, too, and nurses. All of whom are a little shell shocked at the idols just milling about in your hospital room, making themselves at home.  

Throughout it all, Minghao stays. His usual quiet, steadfast presence. He absorbs all the diagnoses; he tells off his members when they get overwhelming. And, when no one's looking, he'll squeeze your hand or press his fingers into your shoulder.  

As always, there are some things neither of you have to say out loud.  

He's more than happy to play the role of your protector, even as he continues to worry, even as he's filled with dread over the possibility of you not recovering fully and what that might mean.  

See, Minghao would never describe himself as a man of prayer. He doesn't go to temples nearly as often as he should, though he does go often, and he doesn't consider himself not spiritual.  

He finds himself praying anyway. To the universe and whatever is out there, begging for the chance that all of this would work out for you.  

But for now, at this moment, all Minghao can do is wait, and focus on the way your hand feels in his— a source of comfort in and of itself.  

That's how your mother finds you, actually, on the evening that she deigns to visit.  

Minghao is at your bedside, playing with your fingers, and the two of you are debating over something trivial— the merits of adapting dramas into other languages— with your heads bent together. It would've been negligibly friendly if it weren't for the obvious affection in your petty argument, the way you practically lean into each other's touch.  

That's why it takes a moment for either of you to register that a third person had entered your hospital room. You look up at the sound of a throat clearing, and you're just about to apologize when you register who the silver-haired woman by the entryway is.  

Your spine goes rigid; your eyes, imperceptibly wide. "Eomma," you choke out in a slightly strangled whisper.  

Minghao goes still the moment the word leaves your lips, and his mouth goes dry when he registers the figure at the door. He doesn't exactly know what kind of a relationship the two of you had, but Minghao can only hope, for the sake of politeness and respect, that she doesn't despise him.  

"Hello," he says weakly, his hand tightening almost protectively around yours in a silent gesture of support before he finally rises to greet her. He bows respectfully, clearing his throat to greet your mother appropriately.  

Your mother's scrutinizing gaze flickers over Minghao— everything from his polite bow to the way he had just been holding your hand, moments prior. When she speaks, it's in garbled Korean; there's a hint of a French accent, one that doesn't quite match her Seoul dialect.  

"There's no need for that," your mother tells Minghao, referring to his bow. She's aiming for kindness but comes off, still, as cold. It must come with the nature of her profession; you had once mentioned that your parents were diplomats.   

Minghao forces himself to stay calm and composed, even as the fear of how your mother may react to him sets in the pit of his stomach. He nods his head, but he doesn't quite dare to look her in the eye  

"I'm Xu Minghao, ma'am. I'm here to offer some company," Minghao tries to explain, though he's not sure he's doing the best job of it.  

There's a flicker of recognition on your mother's composed expression. The look of recognition in your mother's eyes puts Minghao slightly at ease, but that doesn't quite erase the nervous tension, the anxiety that thrums against the underside of his very skin.  

"Xu Minghao," she repeats, and you let out a groan when she sounds just a little amused despite her stoic demeanor.  

He waits, just about holding his breath as your mother comes further into the room, stopping in front of the two of you. Minghao shifts awkwardly in his spot, glancing over to you just about nervously, as if waiting for you to take charge of the situation.  

"Eomma," you repeat. This time your voice is a lot more level. You try to ignore the way Minghao seems absolutely scared shitless at your side. "When did you fly in?"  

There's a detached casualness to your mother's response, almost more like you're colleagues than family. "Just this morning," she says. "I'm staying at your grandparents’ for now."  

You dip your head into a nod. There's a pause.  

"Minghao is a member of SEVENTEEN," you say, sounding just slightly resigned at having to remind your mother.  

The older woman turns her gaze back to Minghao, her eyebrows raised slightly. "I'm aware," she says coolly, an edge of amusement in her tone. When she refers to you, she sticks to your full name instead of your nickname. "How is it working with my child, Minghao?"  

"They’re wonderful," Minghao answers without hesitation, his answer almost coming out a little too fast.  

He doesn't bother to temper it back, because that's how he feels— and because he believes that your mother needs to know how he feels about working with you, about being around you.  

"Kind," he adds after a moment of pause, looking back over to you, just about begging to be given permission to continue, to gush about you.  

You look straight back at Minghao, barely resisting the urge to vehemently shake your head. You know him. You know how he wants to say more, would probably talk hours and hours about your role as an interpreter if you gave him the green light.  

As you attempt to wordlessly communicate with him through your pointed glare, your mother watches the exchange with growing amusement. Then, just as you always have whenever you wanted to get Minghao talking more—  

"I would hope they were kind," your mother says, though she says the words in Mandarin.  

When your mother speaks in Mandarin, Minghao can't help the rush of gratitude that floods through him, because that only means one thing— that it was okay, that he was encouraged to say more. And so, he does, a small smile on his lips.  

"Kind, thoughtful, patient," he says softly, almost like a litany. "Always on top of things. Brilliant."  

There was something about talking about you in his own language that made everything come so much easier to Minghao. "They make us all look bad," he adds with a soft laugh, though there's a hint of truth behind the words. He means it.  

You made him want to be better to you, more worthy of you, and not just as a person, either. As a man, too.  

You stare up at Minghao, exasperated at how a simple change in language had suddenly gotten him so honest. "You shouldn't say all that—" you hiss at him.  

As you go on to tell off Minghao under your breath and he only looks down at you with that completely smitten expression, your mother puts two and two together. One doesn't have to be in the same room as the two of you for too long to recognize it.  

Ah, the older woman thinks to herself. They're in love with each other, and they don't even know it.  

The expression on Minghao's face as you scold him would be better described as that of a puppy who doesn't quite understand what he'd done wrong. His eyebrows furrow, and as you continue to hiss under your breath, he looks like he simply wants to reach out and pull you into a hug because he can't stand it when you fuss over him.  

But he settles for squeezing your fingers once more, his grip tightening, just enough to ground himself when you don't seem to relent in your quiet berating.  

After a moment, your mother clears her throat again. It's a habit of hers that immediately gets you to shut up.  

"I just wanted to drop by," she says vaguely, switching back to Korean. "But I really must get going. Duty calls."  

"Duty calls," you echo quietly, and your mother's gaze softens imperceptibly.  

"I'll be back later tonight," she reassures you. Her gaze flickers to Minghao for a moment before returning to you. "I trust that you'll be in good hands until then."  

"Eomma," you huff, and your mother looks like she almost might laugh.  

Minghao stays still as he watches you interact with your mother, as he watches her gaze flicker back and forth between the both of you. He can't help the slight smile on his face at the look in your mother's eyes, however, because it's almost like approval.  

She turns to Minghao, this time. Gives him a once-over. He's jolted when your mother suddenly speaks French. It's not anything Minghao will understand— just a brief sentence that is meant for you and you alone. It's almost impertinent; the words are anything but.

Your smile widens and you respond in the same language.  

Your mother gives Minghao a nod. "Goodbye, Minghao," she says in Korean as she takes her leave. "It was a pleasure to meet you."  

Minghao is left looking at you, still holding on to your hand. His eyes flicker down to your smile, a grin of his own blossoming on his lips. "What did you say to each other?" he asks, almost immediately pouting.  

He won't admit it, but he feels almost jealous. The feeling tides over when you absentmindedly note, "It was nothing."    

The smile on Minghao's face turns soft and he squeezes your hand for good measure, still watching your face even as you slump back against your bed.  

"You're a terrible liar, y'know." He raises your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against your knuckles. "You know I can read you, right?"  

"She asked me if I agreed with the meaning of your name," you say point blank. "And I said yes. Of course."  

Minghao pauses, his lips still at your knuckles as he absorbs your words.  

He knows what his name means. He's heard it enough in his lifetime. As far as names were concerned, he always considered himself lucky for the fact that he's got a pretty decent one.  

Ming, 明, which meant bright and brilliant. Hao, 浩, which meant grand and vast. Minghao— someone bright, brilliant, vast like the sky.  

But to hear you say it back to him like this? It feels like a revelation. Like you're giving him a gift, something that he can hold on to.  

"Of course," he repeats reverently, his heart a steady thump, thump, thump in his chest.

The subsequent recovery period is a slow crawl. Minghao fusses more often than not. He ensures you're on top of things— physical therapy, check-ups— and is extra careful about anything that might involve your back.  

Even as you're given the go-ahead to return to work, he frets, having read through one too many articles about the risks of having a discectomy. How strenuous labor and contact sports are still off the table for the foreseeable future. How, now, four weeks after the surgery, you still ought to be careful with routine activities.  

It's as endearing as it is vaguely irksome, especially on instances such as these. The rest of the staff avert their gazes and try not to laugh. The boys look like they're most definitely going to give you grief later on.  

Because Minghao is still adamantly carrying your things as you all head to a shooting location for the newest Going Seventeen episode.  

"Hao," you say through gritted teeth, right at Minghao's heels as he lugs around your duffel bag. "I told you, I can carry that!"  

Despite the slight exasperation in your voice, Minghao can't hide the way the corners of his lips tug into a smile.  

He knows exactly what he's doing and he knows how it makes you feel. But he can't help himself; it's too easy to wind you up. "It's heavy," Minghao insists, despite the fact that it's not that heavy, or that he doesn't actually believe that it is.  

He’s just being a slight nuisance on purpose, something he does often to get your attention.  

"It's not heavy," you seethe, taking extra steps to keep up with Minghao's lithe strides. He’s leading you to one of the company buses that would take all the members and the staff to today's shooting location— some beachside AirBnB along Sokcho.  

"I packed it, for Christ's sake. I know it's not heavy," you insist helplessly, reaching out one hand to tug at the back of Minghao's shirt.  

He's always like this, pushing and prodding and annoying you to get reactions out of you because he finds it amusing. It's been such a long time since you last properly scolded him, and oh, how he wants you to do it again.  

He stops in his tracks, forcing you to either halt in yours or bump into him. When he pauses, your feet keep moving on their own accord. Your face smashes right into Minghao's back.  

Immediately, your hand that had been grasping his shirt flies to your face. You clutch the bridge of your nose— feeling a slight sting there, following the impact— as you mumble a low chorus of "ow, ow, ow, what the hell..."  

The moment your face smashes into his back, Minghao finds himself doubling over in laughter, his frame shaking as he braces against his knees. The look of pure disbelief on your face is probably one of the funniest things he's seen all week, and the laughter that bubbles up out of his chest is unrestrained and free.  

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" he apologizes, his voice wavering in between laughter as he slowly tries to regain his composure. "Are you... are you alright? Does it hurt? Is it broken?"  

"You're insufferable," you huff before stomping ahead of him, making it a point to bump your shoulders against his as you make a beeline for the bus.  

Minghao only continues to chuckle, shaking his head as he follows after you, his laughter never once dissipating. By the time he reaches the bus, he's still smiling, completely unable to hide the way he keeps grinning.  

Much to Minghao's chagrin, however, you exact your revenge in the smallest way possible: By settling into a seat next to Mingyu, who's always more than a little willing to jump on Minghao's nerves when given the chance.  

"Sorry, Hao," Mingyu sing-songs, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "But I'm calling dibs for the next two hours. There's an empty seat next to Jun, though!"

Minghao only rolls his eyes, clearly slightly miffed at the way you'd just abandoned him for Mingyu in a heartbeat.

He finds his way to Jun's side, plopping down on the seat next to the other boy with an overdramatic, exaggerated sigh. "He snatched her away from me, ge," he whines, glancing back over to you with that same pout still on his face.

"You made her bump into you, Haohao," Jun points out with another roll of his eyes, shaking his head, though there was still a slight curl on the corners of his lip.

"I'm just having fun! You could at least sympathize with me.” There's no seriousness behind Minghao's complaint. It's a tone of complete and utter playfulness, and that only deepens Minghao's smile as he leans back in his chair.

The bus ride drags on, slow and careful, with Mingyu and you chatting about menial things. At one point, he slumps against your side to fall asleep on your shoulder, and you doze off with your cheek pressed to the top of his head. Seokmin takes a photo for posterity purposes.

Jun and Minghao watch from a couple of seats behind, and for a moment, Jun is contemplative.

It's a conscious choice for Jun to slide into Mandarin. The only other person in the bus who might understand it would be you, and you’re knocked out cold. That means the words are for Minghao alone.

"How much do you like them, Haohao?"

The switch in language catches Minghao's attention, especially when he hears the seriousness in Jun's voice. It's enough for him to pause, lifting his head up from where he'd had his chin resting against his knees.

"Too much, I think," he finally answers, with just a slight hint of hesitation.

It's not because he's ashamed, but because he's never been the kind of person to be so open about these type of feelings before. He's not even sure he knows how, sometimes.

"There's no going back now," Jun says, reaching out to lightly nudge Minghao's hip with his own. There's a slight look of concern in his eyes, but he speaks carefully, keeping his voice low as he continues.

"You might be in too deep," Jun continues, his voice a low murmur as he adds. "But I think... if the way they look at you is any indication, they’re right there with you."

The smile that spreads across Minghao's face is blinding, despite the way he turns his gaze down to his shoes. He can't help it— not when his heart is beating fast against his chest, at the idea of you feeling the same way that he does.

He wants it to be true, more than he's ever wanted something to be true in his entire life.

"I should hope so," he says, in an attempt at being flippant, but the way his voice sounds? It would give him away instantly.

When the company bus eventually rolls up onto a gravelly parking lot, the sight beyond the vehicle is one to behold. Sprawling, white sand beaches with glittering waters. The boys are still supposed to film some content, do some challenges, but the prospect of being in somewhere so pretty has significantly boosted everyone's spirits.

Wonwoo rouses Mingyu and you from your sleep. Mingyu chatters aimlessly at your side, only pausing when Minghao comes up to you; of course, the older boy can't resist one last jab.

In full view of Minghao, Mingyu does an infuriating shaka sign in front of his face and mouths 'call me, jagiya', completely unwarranted. It draws a proper snort of laughter out of you. 

"Stop it," Minghao whines as he reaches out to pinch Mingyu, though there's no real heat behind his voice. He doesn't even try to hide that smile on his face, not when he catches the way you laugh.

He can't look away from you once he sets his eyes on you. He's never been able to.

He just hopes that you can't tell exactly how in love he is. Because how is he supposed to tell you he's fallen hard?

The day at the shore flies by faster than any of them expect it to, but in the end, the filming is finally over.

By the time the staff tells them they're finished, the sky is painted in beautiful shades of orange, pink, and purple. It only adds to Minghao's already good mood, especially when he gets the chance to steal you back from Mingyu and get you all to himself.

When filming wraps up and the cameramen all begin to pack their material, the boys take it as a go-ahead to treat the rest of the late afternoon as a beach day.

You smile, mostly to yourself, as they break off— to take photos, to go for a swim, to explore the private beach. All the while, you try to maintain your focus on your laptop, your practiced fingers moving across your keyboard.  

It's why you're initially oblivious to Minghao's stealthy approach.  

Minghao lingers behind for a moment, watching you work. He's already gotten changed, his clothes swapped with swim trunks and a simple black tank top.  

He knows better than to bother you while you're working, and so— to your oblivious self— he's content to stand by and simply watch until you're done. After another moment, his expression softness as he sees how your brow furrows in concentration. Minghao steps in a little closer, one hand coming up to gently ruffle your hair.  

He almost doesn't want you to get back to work and instead considers pulling you up so you can go for a swim with him. He does no such thing, though, settling for patting your cheek once before pulling his hand away.  

You briefly glance up from your laptop so you can flash him a ghost of a smile. There's something to be said about the ways you often communicate without words, how easy it is to just understand.  

You dip your head, give a wave of your hand, turn your gaze back to your laptop. A silent, speechless Go ahead, I'll follow.  

It's like there's nothing he's not feeling right then— just happiness at seeing a smile, and the way that it feels like there's no secrets between the two of you.  

He reaches out to gently pat your cheek once more, his hand lingering for a moment before he pulls away again, turning to make his way out of the tent, the grin on his face still ever-present.  

By the time you're done with your work and changed into some proper swimwear, most of the boys and the staff are already in the water. It's in moments like these when you're reminded why you've stayed with PLEDIS for so long— the ways you're allowed to interact, to just be, when there's no cameras on, no job to do.  

You linger by the shoreline for a beat too long. Before you know it, you're being swept off your feet. Your shriek of surprise pierces across the beach as Jun easily throws you over one shoulder, his hand respectfully bracing the part of your back where there's still marks from your surgery.  

"Sorry, tàiyáng," Jun cheekily says in Mandarin as he rushes the two of you into the water, eliciting laughs from everyone else. He sends you hurtling into the ocean as you scream bloody murder, but you're laughing, still, as you go down.  

Minghao is laughing from where he's standing near the shore, still waist-deep in the water. He'd heard you scream, but the second he hears the sound of your laugh he knows you're fine. Instead of rushing to his feet and out of the ocean, he just stays where he is, the smile on his face never faltering.

The sound of your laughter is only made better by the way the sunlight dances off the water, reflecting off its shimmering surface like diamonds.

He watches as you resurface, your wet hair in your face as you gasp for breath, your face bright with a smile, and he can't help the way he feels himself falling, falling, falling.

He wants to swim over and make sure you're alright, but he knows that Jun won't let anything happen to you. All Minghao does is watch, his grin wide and bright, his eyes never leaving you. He's completely smitten, and right now, the others are just going to have to deal with him being even more of an insufferable, lovestruck fool.

The next couple of moments drag on with light-hearted rough housing, with idle splashing and lazy swimming, until Jun has somehow maneuvered you and him towards where Minghao is in the water.

Jun, behind your back, throws his best friend a conspiratorial wink.

Minghao knows that he can be obvious to an almost comical degree when he's in over his head in his feelings for you, but Jun winking is an entirely different story, and he's already a little wary as Jun brings the two of you over in his direction. 

Even still, nothing could prepare him for the sight of you soaked from head to toe, the water shimmering on your skin in the sunlight as you near him.

Oh, he's screwed, and he's pretty sure Jun and the others know that.

So he does the only thing he can think of.

Minghao dips under the surface of the water and disappears, ducking under the water for a few seconds before he comes back up just behind you, and reaches out to tickle your sides. If he's going to be an idiot and fall all over you, he might as well try and cover it up with a little bit of playfulness.

"Yah, don't do that!" you cry, already rounding in a futile attempt to stop Minghao. You weren't particularly ticklish, but something about the cool water and the warm breeze has you feeling more sensitive than necessary. Breathless laughter escapes you as you try to capture Minghao's wrists, to stop him from his actions.  

Jun quietly pads away with the pleased air of someone having done his job well. Some of the other boys share knowing glances— like they know they ought to intervene— but it's Seungcheol who shakes his head, who wordlessly calls everyone off.  

The leader, telling his members in the most subtle way, Let Minghao have this.  

There are words Minghao wants to say when you reach for his wrists to stop his actions, to ask if you want to join him in diving under the water with him, but words have never been his strong suit.  

No, it's actions that are his strength. And so, instead of asking if you'd like to join him, Minghao does just that, wrapping his arms around your waist and ducking the both of you under the water, the salt in the water stinging his eyes a bit as he opens them briefly beneath the surface.  

And then he brings you back up for air, the look on his face almost triumphant as he laughs, shaking his head to rid himself of the water that's plastered all over his hair and face.  

When you emerge, you laugh in between gasps for air, and instinctively reach up to push aside the wet strands of hair sticking to Minghao's face. "Look at you," you say disapprovingly, but you're betrayed by the pure, unadulterated adoration in your tone.  

"You love this look on me, xīngān," he insists, with that same wide grin on his face.  

And, well, he's not wrong. He can see the way your gaze lingers on his face, even as you scold him and ruffle his wet hair teasingly.  

It makes him wonder what it'd be like if all the what-ifs were real, if this was a relationship rather than an almost. He's almost afraid to wish for it. As if wanting it too much might break it.  

Minghao likes the way that you press close to him, and he keeps his arm wrapped snugly around your waist as you talk and laugh and joke with the others.  

It almost feels right, the way you're there next to him. Even though this isn't a relationship, the way that you slot right next to him is comforting because it almost makes what isn't feel more like what it could be.  

He wants the taste of you to be something more than just a taste. He wants more than a simple bite.

And so, that's how he finds himself suggesting that the two of you go on a walk together once the sun starts to set. There's a slight flush to his cheeks as he asks the question, a shy little smile on his face as he murmurs it.

He wants a chance to be alone with you. He thinks he deserves that much, especially now, after spending the rest of the day having been teased and prodded and jabbed at by the others about his feelings for you.

"Sure," you say coolly, somehow managing to keep your voice level. "Let me just grab my stuff."  

That's how you and Minghao end up breaking off from everyone else, kicking up the sand underneath your feet as you go. There's a couple of jeers here and there; Seungcheol warns you both to be back before dark.  

You take it in stride as you go on ahead, your shoulders just barely brushing. Like you're absolutely helpless to the pull of gravity that tries to keep you together.  

Once the other boys are out of sight, out of earshot, Minghao finds himself growing slightly less shy as you walk side by side, the two of you headed for a small cliffside pathway.  

His gaze is drawn to you rather quickly— to the way the ocean breeze makes your hair blow about, the way you almost shine when the sunlight hits you. The way your hand is so tantalizingly close. His own almost aches to reach out and take yours.  

"You know," he says instead, his lips quirking up into a little cheeky grin that makes his dimple show when he sees the path lined with flowers. Some of them blooming, some small clusters of white blooms scattered around the cliffside.  

Minghao plucks one of the blooms from its plant and tucks it into your hair so it's just behind your ear. He has to focus to not notice the way his fingers skim your cheek, and God, you're so close.  

"I think you look pretty like this," he says, and the words are whispered out like a confession. He picks another of the blooms, and offers it to you, his smile bright, genuine. "Take it. For good luck, maybe."  

When he extends to you one of the white blooms with that gorgeous, dimpled grin, you chuckle quietly. You take the flower. You hold it in your fingers for just a beat.  

And then you stand on your tiptoes to mimic Minghao's action— tucking the bloom right above his ear.  

"You're all the good luck that I need, xīngān," you say laughingly, in Minghao's mother tongue.  

Minghao melts, his lips parting in the slightest as he stares at you like you're a vision, like you're something to worship. He's already far too gone on. The moment he feels your fingertips against his skin, he decides he'll never be able to get over you, not if it takes him years to try to do it.  

There, the two of you stand, looking at each other with an unspoken, shared admiration, standing in front of a cliffside that overlooks the ocean with the sun setting against it, the horizon all burning shades of amber and orange and red.  

This is a moment that Minghao won't forget, and he takes your hand in his, slowly interlacing your fingers together to see if you'll let him.  

Just to know that there's a little bit of a chance that his dreams could come true, someday.  

Your fingers find purchase in the spaces between Minghao's, slotting there as if it was something meant to be. As if the two of you might have the right.  

For a beat, neither of you really say anything as you look out to the glittering expanse of ocean, the sun setting right beneath the horizon. It's a little too picture perfect.  

Exactly the reason why neither Minghao nor you dare to verbalize whatever this is, whatever you've been dancing around for years and years. Minghao wants to tell you everything, tell you that he loves you, maybe get down on his knees and kiss your hands, ask you to be his and to let him be yours.  

But he stays there. Silent. Holding your hand by your side.

When you head back to everyone— where food is being served for the members and the staff— there's a bit of an exaggerated welcome from all sides. The boys all jeer, and the staff give you side-eyes, but you only shake your head slightly as you peel away from Minghao's side.  

The words stay unspoken. The red thread of fate, the one that Minghao so firmly believes in, draws out for another moment more.  

As you go to shoot back some drinks with your team, Mingyu sidles up to Minghao's side. The older man presses a sweating bottle of beer into Minghao's hand.  

"Still not tonight, huh?" Mingyu asks with no shortage of amusement.  

The beer in his hand is cold enough that it would be a little uncomfortable to hold onto if Minghao weren't so used to it, but he simply wraps his fingers around the bottle and takes a half-hearted sip from it.  

His lips purse as he hears Mingyu's question, a frown crossing his face.  

"No. We didn't talk about anything," he says, somewhat regretfully, because tonight just felt like it could have been the right night to say something. To finally admit how he feels, to finally ask what he wants to ask.  

And maybe you would deny him, tell him that you just wanted to be his friend, but he'd take it. He'd take anything if it meant he could stay in your life—  

Or maybe you'd even say yes, and he could finally have a chance to prove himself to you.  

"Are you going to try again tomorrow?" Mingyu asks, taking a sip of his own beer, his eyebrows raising a little.  

Another sigh falls from Minghao's lips and he nods, his gaze softening as he looks in your direction, watching you smile in spite of the way he aches to be by your side.  

"Of course I'm going to try again tomorrow," he whispers, and he'll do that for the rest of his life if he has to.  

The night drags on with everyone getting progressively more drunk. Soonyoung is reduced to tears at one point, while Seungkwan puts on an enthusiastic, one-man performance of Aju Nice. 

And maybe Minghao drinks a little more than he usually does, partly because Mingyu and Jun take advantage of the fact that it's a rare thing for them to be drinking with you within the vicinity.  

Minghao's best friends are menaces who want to see what type of drunk he is, who want to see how it will affect the way he approaches you. He's always been quiet when he's drunk— the type of drunk with a slight permanent blush to his cheeks, with a lazy grin on his face, with thoughts too slurred or in Mandarin for most of the boys to understand.  

And tonight was no different, with his face flushed from alcohol and his words so slurred that all Mingyu and Jun can pick up is the word pretty over and over, along with a couple of other words in Mandarin. But he's always been honest when he's drunk— almost too much so.  

Jun is a bit stressed having to play interpreter for Minghao's drunken ramblings, but it's all worth it when Mingyu tosses his head back with raucous laughter at every word spilling from Minghao's lips, interpreted by Jun.  

"This is too much," Jun whines once the three of them have worked through a significant amount of soju. A glassy-eyed Mingyu nods in agreement, though neither of them are as bad as the notoriously lightweight Minghao.  

"Haohao, are you going to go up to her or what?" Mingyu teases.  

Another slurred word in Mandarin falls from Minghao's lips upon hearing that, his eyebrows knitting together for a moment as he pouts at Mingyu.

It's almost comical to see, to hear Minghao's usually soft and lilting voice falter, all while his cheeks stay a soft pink and his hair is a mess from how he's been running his hand through it.

The thought of approaching you makes his stomach churn, but he knows that he will. After this next shot. Just one more drink.

"Ge, you said you'd only drink one," Jun murmurs, a bit of concern seeping in his tone as he sees Minghao grab shakily yet another shot glass of soju.

Of course, he ignores their warnings for the moment as he downs the shot, his face growing pinker as he shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet.

It takes him a moment to gain his footing, his legs a little wobbly from alcohol, but he gets it. Mingyu laughs so hard that tears come out of his eyes. Jun, distressed, shoots back some more alcohol.

Minghao's vision is a little blurry, but you're just within his sight. And so, with Jun and Mingyu watching from behind, he makes his way towards you.

He's got a lopsided grin on his face, his cheeks a little pink, and he thinks he must be in love in a moment like this.

"Xīngān," he slurs, a slight hiccup following the word as he stops in front of you, his vision still a little fuzzy. He raises his hand to gently rub the back of his neck, his tone a little softer— and a bit more earnest— as he murmurs his invitation. “Can we talk for a minute?”

"Hey, you," you greet, readjusting the flower that he'd placed behind your ear. "Having fun?"  

Minghao shakes his head, his lips parting to say no only to dissolve back into soft little hiccupping giggles instead. Of course he's having fun— how could he not, when his love is right there, and he gets to see you smiling and laughing and tipsy yourself?  

He stumbles forward, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you in, his free hand coming up to your face as he squishes your cheeks and gives you a bright, gummy smile. "Are you having fun, xīngān?" he asks.  

"I'm having fun, Hao," you concede laughingly, resting your other hand at his waist to keep yourself steady. It's— once again— a position that implicates you a little more than it should, but everyone's varying levels of drunk anyway.  

This isn't the drunk Minghao, exactly, that everyone has seen. This is the one he so rarely allows anyone to witness, the one who gets clingy and a little emotional. He's usually much more capable of keeping his composure, even with alcohol loosening his tongue and his inhibitions, but he just can't manage to focus on anything but you tonight.

"Come run away with me," he murmurs. He tugs you against his side again, a little less carefully this time. He wants the closeness, tonight, as he leads the two of you over to the chairs loosely surrounding a warm bonfire.  

It's mostly the other boys here— Joshua and Vernon practicing an acoustic guitar, Jihoon chatting with the co-producer everyone knew he had a bit of a thing for. They all watch with mild amusement as Minghao drunkenly stumbles over to one of the chairs, single-minded in his ambition of sharing a single seat.  

He plops down onto the chair, tugging you right into his lap. He's so close to you then, his lips next to your ear as he wraps his arms snug around your waist, his legs on either side of you, pressing you close against him.  

"I missed you," he murmurs, and the words are slurred, warm on the shell of your ear as he presses his face into the crook of your neck and exhales softly for a moment.  

He's drunk. And in love. And that's a dangerous combination.  

You press your fingers into Minghao's knee, your shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. "How could you miss me?" you whisper back. "I was right there the whole night, xīngān."  

He shakes his head, burying his face into the crook of your neck, mumbling softly. "You were far," he pouts, his words a little more garbled than before. He has no sense of personal space right now, with you pressed so close against him, and he's more prone to whine to get his way. 

He wants this. He wants you close. He wants you. 

"Is that so?" you say sympathetically, the words coming out almost like a coo. "You have me now, though." 

"I'm never letting you go," he responds.  

There's still an almost childish part of him that thinks if he says it, like this, with you wrapped up in his arms, with your face flushed from alcohol, that maybe you'll stay by his side.  

He just has one question that he wants an answer for.  

"Will you hold my hand," his words are slurred, his fingers tracing along the small of your back, up, down, back up again, "and look at the moon with me?"

Wordlessly, you reach for his hand at the small of your back and you thread your fingers together. You keep your intertwined hands over your thigh as you lean just a little further into Minghao until he's pressed against the back of the chair and you're practically lying on top of him.  

It's easier, this way, for you to tilt your head back and do exactly as he asked. "Moon," you point out with your free hand, the word coming out in Mandarin. Yuèliàng. "It's a crescent moon tonight, see?"  

With his arm securely around your waist, he presses closer still to look at the moon together, his words still a stammer as he murmurs, "Yeah. Just like us."  

The words have no logic, not when he's drunk and soft and clingy like this. But he's still happy with it.  

"Just like us?" you echo, and you briefly wonder if you're just a little too tipsy; if you'd missed a chapter or two about how you could be compared to the waxing crescent. Your eyebrows furrow in mild confusion, though you quickly realize there's no point in worrying your head when you could just ask.  

"I'm the moon, and you're the flower," he declares, with all the confidence of his own drunken logic, his eyes falling to look at the flower still tucked behind your ear. He reaches up a hand to brush his fingers against the side of your face. 

If not for the alcohol, he might be too shy to admit how pretty you are to him. 

"We're a matched set, xīngān," he says.   

The smile that breaks out on your face, then, is bright and wide and warm, rivaled only by the bonfire raging a couple of feet away. Your friends are still chattering amongst themselves, completely oblivious to Minghao's bold declaration.

A matched set. And you're just a little out of it, just a little drunk yourself, as you mindlessly link Minghao and your pinkies together. It's a quiet promise on its own. An assurance that this was something that could happen, would happen, at the right time.  

"My moon," you concede, calling Minghao with a breathless sort of giggle. "My moon, my xīngān, my Hao."  

"I love it when you speak Mandarin," he admits, his words warm against your temple as he presses closer still, his lips a few centimeters from your skin.  

He has too much alcohol in his system, too little a filter for his thoughts, and right now, Minghao's world consists only of you and how you look in the moonlight— like some kind of vision, like something he'd write about in a song.  

"Say it again," he instructs, his tone gentle. A request. Never a command.  

"Which part do you want me to say again?" you ask in Mandarin, because Minghao had said he loved it when you spoke in it and you'd be damned not to give in.  

It's all the same to him. The gentle words that come tumbling from your lips— he doesn't need to understand the meaning, he just wants to hear you speak. 

Because how you sound when you speak Mandarin is lovely, and Minghao can't help but lean in just a little to drink in the sound of it, his fingers tracing along the exposed skin of your upper back.  

He's never cared or loved the way he does when he's speaking Mandarin. But you, when you speak to him, it sounds like poetry.  

"Anything," he murmurs. "Just say anything."  

You tilt your head back up to the sky, where none of the usual Seoul light pollution is barring you from seeing the stars. When you see the expanse of the Big Dipper, you stick to what you know.  

A Korean myth from your yesteryears, one that he hadn’t heard of in his own childhood.  

"Once upon a time, deep in the mountains, lived a mother and her seven sons," you start softly, in Mandarin, as per Minghao's request. You tell the story almost in a whisper— the cold winter, the seven brothers, the Jade Emperor of Heaven.  

A part of you, in the language that was a part of Minghao.

As you tell the fable, the alcohol settles comfortably in Minghao’s system. He feels sobered by the fact that you’re so close, that you’re indulging him in the way that you always do. So much, he thinks again. You give me so much. 

And yet it’s not enough, still. He thinks back to the Korean phrase he once sought you out for. Intuition. Zhíjué. 

Your story is winding to a close when he decides to trust his gut, this time. His arms tighten around your waist and he buries his face into the back of your shoulder.

"I love you," he says. Wǒ ài nǐ.

You pause. He can hear the smile in your tone as you respond, "I love you, too." Wǒ yě ài nǐ. 

But, no. Minghao is done.

He won’t let this pass, won’t let miscommunication take this away from him. He has spent the better half of his twenties grasping at straws, bridging gaps in languages; this will not be another one of those things that he can’t say. He takes a fortifying breath. 

He doesn’t care if you don’t believe in soulmates. If he’s the only one who thinks there’s a red string tied between you two. He’ll subscribe to your credo of destiny. He’ll do all the work. 

"I’m in love with you," he amends. Wǒ ài shàngle nǐ.

He says it in his language, because it feels right, but then he repeats it in yours so there’s no room for you to misunderstand. It doesn’t change, anyway. Korean, Mandarin. English, Japanese. 

Minghao is helplessly, hopelessly in love with you. 

It feels like forever before you respond. 

When you do, it’s in Mandarin. "Me, too," you admit, and he peeks at you enough just to see the way you’re gazing up at the night sky. He catches the hint of the smile on your face; the sincerity of which threatens to bowl him over. 

You repeat his words— I’m in love with you— in Mandarin, then Korean, then English, then Japanese. Then all the other languages you know. 

Minghao resists the urge to tell you to stop, to tell you it’s okay. He holds you tight, laughing quietly, as he basks in what feels a lot like the beginning of something. 

It’s okay, he wants to say as you confess to him in Spanish, in Portuguese, in Italian. 

I hear you. 

I hear you loud and clear. 

[a-sea-with-no-shores]

in the car just now "Guys on Every Corner" came on and I realized that this would make a hilarious Blood of Youth vid. I mean no 90% of the words don't fit at all (nobody on this show has EVER "looked like nothing") and yes the tone is ALL wrong but honestly I just think that would make it better

You could do it either all XS (speaking of blank expressions) people or one section per faction and I think it would work either way

too bad it will never happen

[stuck-in-the-ghost-zone]

preemptively sorry for how fucking long this is it is YOUR FAULTT THOUGH!!!! large bowl of seeds for u. it is almost 2am sorry.

SO. there are. two ways to assign the prime defenders powers etc. the first way is just, like, categorize their existing powersets within the prt framework, & the second is to give them entirely new abilities based on the way worm works. delightfully, all the powers they Do have work really well for the most part, so even that doesn't require a ton of shuffling.

categorizing their pre-existing powers:

wiwi-- breaker w/ a shaker subclass. neither of them rated very high, but that's already a rare and versatile enough combination!!

dakota-- brute babeeeey!!! brute/mover its so straightforward. hell yeah babey. i don't know what he'll end up looking like post-heart removal & stuff but my guess is that'll end up looking more like a mover/striker.

vyncent-- now THIS one gave me trouble. i... hm. to say this without talking about stuff that i don't think has come up much already, (hey!! you're at that clockblocker pov! directly related to what flechette says!) i'd call him a grab-bag cape, irt the greats at least. post-greats-- again, i don't know what his powerset will look like after this arc! but if he's going all in w/ the fire magic, that would for sure be some striker shit! :]]]

giving them new powers... man i'm reining myself in so hard from five more paragraphs on Why exactly i'm saying all this.

wiwi still breaker for sure, maybe breaker-master, maybe master-stranger. yknow. powers are fluid, the prt categories are pretty rigid. i... don't know. enough about his situation yet to be clearer than that vague idea yet-- i really like the idea of him just. ditching his body & using a noncorporeal form but he still has to keep an eye on his body i think that's great. the noncorporeal form would b able to change its visibility but still b limited by proximity to the body. & fluctuating energy shit powered by fluctuating amounts of recent-death in the area, maybe probably also limited in that it's only accessible in his breaker form.... also i think u will appreciate this style note from the [UNNAMED PARAHUMANS TTRPG] i'm referencing a lot here.

dakota--in this situation he probably would not. have that mechanical heart and shit. he' would still be a mover/thinker-- thinker rating is for faster mental processing + senses imminent pain for the people in his immediate vicinity. not danger, just pain; it immediately registers ambiently & can be generally traced back to whoever it is. no he can't turn it off ever, it manifests as feeling a similar level of pain, yes it works on himself. + mover-- he can fucking fly. no super strength, just very fast flight & the general "won't splat himself flying into something" capabilities, which meshes well w/ the faster processing & reflexes. i'm split on how exactly this would work mechanically but i will NOT go into that now. i am also not going into the 15k discussion in my brain on why dakota 'notoriously bad at thinking about things' cole would be a thinker but u gotta trust the process ok??

vyncent-- trump!!!! somehow this is the only straightforward one to me? he can copy powers at the full strength or ability level of the original for an unspecified amount of time that's usually 1-30 minutes by touching the cape. crucially, he doesn't have any edge on how to use these powers + can easily misuse or become extremely overwhelmed by them. he's easily the most powerful out of the three of them <33

ashe-- ashe is NOT HERE currently and also it's 1:30 am so i gotta go fucking sleep soon BUT they would be a master. easy. :o) they can make some lil guys n do stuff with them!!!!

in general these are pretty fucking cracked abilities, all of them would b oosely above a seven or so in a number rating once they're really settled in their powers-- this is mostly because i'm assuming that they would still be heirs-apparent to the prime force equivalent, which would b the triumvirate :]] anyway. good lord. this is like the cliff notes edition of what i've been thinking and scribbling in the notes app for the past several hours. sorry if it's fucking incomprehensible. gn!!! <333

AAAAAH FUCK YESSSSSS OKAY OKAY OKAY my response is probably going to be equally as long. so it's fine. oooouh buddy.

I KNOW WHAT BREAKER MEANS NOW !!! I dontttt think ive learned shaker yet. breaker is like.... breaking the laws of physics/shifting planes or whatever. PERFECT for william hell yes. for putting them actually in worm world ... ughhhh breaker/master william is REALLY cool. I havwnt learned stranger yet but i think he would develop a complex over being classified as stranger <3 (like how weld doesn't like that he's classified as a brute even though that's not exactly what it means, he just doesn't like the word) . GODDDD just thinking abt putting pd boys in worm is fucking me up haven't they been through enough. I want to see them all in a fit of despair. william ditching his body is SO good I miss when he would do that, also the powers being limited by how far away he is AND THE AMOUNT OF RECENT DEATH IN THE AREA. holy shit. that's so fucking good . im sure he would not overthink at all the fact that he is stronger when more people around him have died . I'm sure he'd do awesome in the leviathan fight for sure for sure .

DAKOTA BRUTE <3 DAKOTA BRUTE/MOVER I LOVE THIS A LOTTTTTT hellbyes. awesome. it's so perfect for him <3 worm world I'm SURPRISED u didn't stick with brute for him. eyes emoji. I trust your judgement but now i am Thinking... Hmm..... YOU BRING INTO QUESTION something I have been thinking about. and I'm going to probably get derailed a little here but stay with me. how the way powers manifest directly relate to the trigger event. because for a WHILE before we learned taylors I was like "OH i bet the powers are going to be directly related to what traumatic thing happened to them" and then we learn about taylor and grue and a couple more and I kind of lost that theory because while you can. technically draw relations between their powers and their events it seemed like too much of a stretch to do . HOWEVER now my thinking has changed AGAIN and I think the powers ARE related to specific trigger events but it's not as straightforward as "oh something scary happened to you with bugs so now you have bug powers" I think it's gonna be more complicated than that. WHICH. THE WAY THIS RELATES. BACK ON TOPIC NOW. to DAKOTA . assuming his trigger event is still he and katori falling off the building I think it's AWESOME that his powers would manifest as FLIGHT for one. and the fucking. pain sense thing. fuck me up. dakota extreme hero complex cole would be so fucked up by a power where he ambiently senses pain from the people around him at all times and cannot turn it off. I'm sure he would feel so normal about being around william chronic pain wisp 24/7. also I can SO CLEARLY imagine how this power specifically would lead to him getting super overwhelmed in chaotic situations like he does in canon. and just fucking. bolt out of there because it's too much. again. he'd have such a wonderful time in the leviathan fight

I AM AT CLOCKBLOCKER POV !!!! actually technically I'm on kid win pov now but I haven't finished his chapter yet. vyncent grab bag cape..... yeah... I think it would be EXTREMELY funny imagining the PRT in pd world trying 2 classify vyncent like. what the fuck does this kid do . what do we do with him. hes got other guys in his head that give him powers. is he a master??? no he can't fucking control them. is he a striker??? only SOMETIMES. is he a blaster?? AGAIN ONLY SOMETIMES. cannot classify him bitch!!!!!!!! giving him worm powers though.. UGH. being able to touch someone and COMPLETELY copy their powers but only for a short period of time???? I fucking love that a lot. he WOULD be the most powerful out of them!!! I can hear taylors inner analysis dialogue about him now and it's very similar to the clockblocker "DONT LET HIM.TOUCH YOU" panic. loooove imagining this playing off of the rest of pd,,, i know there was AT LEAST one time where he had william sort of transfer some of his ghost powers for a minute? I think it was during the lich fight in the theatre but i just remember vycnent floating and going intangible and NOT KNOWING how to control it or anything. loveeee that. in world dynamics I feel like vyncent would be a late addition to their team (instead of coming from another world maybe he just. had his trigger event happen way later than the other two..or something.) and not trusting them as much at first/being REALLY shaky using either of their powers but after a while being really comfortable in a fight with using either Williams or dakotas powers in a fight. Just like. imagining the fluidity of how they'd work together in a tense situation assuming they're not being complete dumbasses <3333 UGH it's really good

AAAASHE ASHE ASHE IM SOOO SO GLAD YOU INCLUDED ASHE IN THIS I miss him.so much every day. from what I know so far master involves having/making/controlling some sort of minion (cannot think of a better word than that rn) AND I THINK THATS REALLYYYY perfect for ashe. i assume he would actually work pretty closely to canon in that his limitation would be the book? or if he doesn't have the book maybe his limitation would be a) having only a few different types of things he could summon (the big hand, the water fairy, duck etc) and/or b) only being able to control them.for a short amount of time after they're summoned so he has to be quick about dismissing them. can't keep the demon hand around for too long or it might start picking things up and throwing them at random. putting teammates in danger bc he can't control it anymore etc etc. alsooooooo in clockblocker pov they VERY briefly mentioned the possibility of having secondary trigger events (?!!!!?!?!) and you know I locked onto that SO FUCKING HARD. ashe being born with powers and then his secondary trigger event being his mom's death <3 im.NOT even going to attempt to talk about how the trickster would work in worm world/if it would even exist in this setting bc i don't know enough about the types of powers and things yet..but just know. I am keeping this in the back of my mind "this is a fun surprise tool that will help us later" style

[tiny-space-platypus]

Never really fit back in

aside part 1

(Stories that I just can't get out of my head but don't forget in main plot)

Damian and Danny act like feral fucking cats thrown into an enclosed room together. The others have learned quickly that the boys CAN NOT be left in a room alone together or they'll both end up bloody and bruised. Well Danny will end up blood and Damian will end up bruised. But! If someone else is in the room they are the sweetest brothers to each other. Laughing, jokingly, hell Damian smiles, but once they're alone all hell breaks loose.

It's worse than when Damian used to try and kill Tim. At least then he at least tried to be sneaky about it but with Danny? No, Damian will walk up to Danny and just stab him for no other reason than he can and Danny, Danny just laughs and takes the blade saying something like "it's in me so it's mine now" then going to throw Damian in a choke hold.

At first the family was worried and confused because why the fuck are they so aggressive towards each other?? Yeah the bats all stalked Danny, yeah the bats were almost about to destroy the Masters and Fentons but that's supposedly water under the bridge now. Danny said he wasn't mad at least, he just wanted to spend time with his brother again. SO WHY WE'RE THEY ALWAYS TRYING TO KILL EACH OTHER??

Dick was the first to see this happen. Dick was with the boys, Danny and him making stupid jokes, Damian groaning, and they'd laugh. Then he left to grab snacks. Only to run back when he heard something crash, in the 5 minutes he was gone, Danny was impaled with a sword, with multiple batarangs sticking out of him! One was even in his eye!! Damian wasn't looking any better, black eye, split lip, bloody nose, and beaten to hell while Danny held him by the throat dangling him above the ground. Dick screamed and went to pull the boys away from each other which Danny allowed easily. When he asked WHY?? the boys only shrugged. Then began to argue about who kept the sword. Danny says it was in him so he should keep it and Damian saying it's his sword. Dick looked at the both of them and sighed taking the weapons for himself much to the protest of the boys. Now he had a head ache and a long conversation to have later.

Bruce almost had a stroke when he was told about it. He nearly fainted when he did see it for himself. HIS BOYS FOUGHT LIKE THEY WERE GOING TO KILL EACH OTHER. So now they couldn't be left alone together someone always had to make sure they didn't kill each other during their visits. Which is fine the Master's Manor was much more suited for their fights anyways hell maybe they could have their mother come watch them fight. It's been a long time since Danny has seen their mother after all.

The reason: That's the only way they know how to act together. They trained together when they were small and it's still just habit. Plus now that Damian knows none of his weapons can really kill Danny he goes all out to stay sharp, to Danny this is just ghost bonding. Ghosts do love fighting after all. Maybe one day he'll actually go full strength on Damian just for fun, just to see how his weaker, still mostly mortal brother will react. After all none of the bats have ever fought him in his ghost form.

Damian and Danny being left alone for 5 minutes:

[lyrefromthesea]

oh! Since you also do requests with hybrids, could I ask for wolfhybrids (or fox) hashiras x reader? Like hashiras see the reader as the perfect mate material, so they try to get closer to them by courting them in their own ways

Male Hashira x Reader - Prey tell?

author's note: the title is a pun, my humor is dry. i fell down the stairs and sit in a hospital since yesterday.

pairing: Tengen x reader, Obanai x reader, Rengoku x reader, Sanemi x reader, Giyuu x reader, Gyomei x reader

content warning: wolf!hybrids, a/b/o, kny!au

i've been thinking a lot about this idea now, especially which rank each hashira would have. alpha? beta? omega? it was quite hard, but i allowed myself to create a little au for better understanding.

to not mess things up, i decided that the reader will be an omega in this au. all the hashira are considered alphas, which of course has a reason too.

i've went through the a/b/o thing over the past two or three days and to put it simply: alpha is the equivalent to strong, omegas are weak in comparison.

the hashira are the strongest swordsmen in the corp, it would only be right to rank them as an alpha (or a beta).

you, on the other hand, have been fighting your way to the top. omegas are weaker than most, but you possess a strong mind, which helped you work your way up.

naturally, the day will come that you catch their attention, if only for the fact that you're an omega. i also imagine omegas to be more rare than alphas and betas, since they take on a weaker role in this au.

Tengen:

• he's smitten since day one - an alpha different from any you've met yet. smug smirk and tall body towering over you the minute your scent hits his nose.

• your scent gives him the same feeling the scents of his three wives do. you're so small, perhaps not physically, but your weak omega presence makes his protective instincts flare up.

• just another day or two and three women are by your side, two betas and another omega looking at you with happiness and a feeling of finally coming home.

• you'll learn to love all of them - courting one is courting all. Tengen's not surprised to come home and find all of you nuzzled together in a cuddle pile.

• and if that isn't enough to turn you into a proper mate of his, shiny presents and lots of time squished between four other people will surely do it.

Obanai:

• small and weak. how did you end up near the alphas? he's suspicious when he heard of you, no omega would be able to turn into a hashira. he needed to see that for himself.

• nearly falls off his spot in the tree when he sees you and a comforting scent hits his nose. he's almost embarrassed by the way his fluffy ears are twitching, trying to listen to your conversation with Rengoku.

• he follows you around for a few days, mustering up the courage to talk to you after nearly a week. you looked up when the man sat in front of you, another bowl of food in hand.

• he doesn't talk much, only telling you that omegas should eat more than you do. you awkwardly look at him for a while, taking the bowl after another minute and thanking him.

• the action alone got him blushing under his mask, bringing you food for the next month when he finds you eating somewhere around the training grounds.

Rengoku:

• he's one of the calmer ones when he hears about your rank as a hashira. an omega got ranked this high? what incredible talent you must possess!

• he's by no means against your way of living, but he can't keep his mouth shut about how "you should stay home and get protected by a proper alpha!" it's no insult and you can sense that much, but you find yourself disagreeing.

• once he's sure that you're the perfect material for a mate, he'll court you the proper way, just like his mother once told him.

• it's just that his "proper courting" nearly has you running away in embarrassment.

• "dear [name], allow me to show you my interest through the traditional ways of courting one's future mate!"

• your agreement only came a day later, after you survived his booming voice right behind you in the midst of a forest's silence. next time he shouldn't sneak up on you like that.

Sanemi:

• hah? ridiculous. a small thing like you is supposed to work midst the likes of him? don't make him laugh, he could eat you up for breakfast.

• with that attractive smell reeking from your body, you wouldn't survive a day. he would see you become a demon's snack sooner than later.

• his jaw nearly hits the ground when he sees you outsmart the lower rank demon in front of you with speed and flexibility instead of strength.

• he grumbles about your stupid cute presence, sweetly roaming around him. you're truthfully just going on about your day, but it's enough to make his mind go blank.

• you're the perfect mix of strong and obedient for him, listening so well to him, because "he's done this job longer than you and you were happy to learn."

• internally smacks himself when he tries signalling his courting intentions by gifting you clothes heavily drenched in his scent.

Giyuu:

• he didn't voice his worries, but an omega living this kind of life? any alpha would be worried, right? especially since omegas have gotten so rare these days!

• but, oh, you're so sweet and nice. you once cooked him some soup and he swore you needed an alpha's protection - his protection.

• if he could just steal you away and ensure your safety, but he knew that would make you unhappy. so he makes sure to keep you safe by following you like a lap dog.

• it's not uncommon to see the new omega and the gloomy hashira take a walk together. people tend to avoid you, feeling unwell because of the intense stare the alpha behind you gives them.

• some of them swore they have seen the two of you nuzzle against each other. a hint of his scent had previously started lingering on your uniform too.

Gyomei:

• is it just your imagination or have you been joining missions with the stone hashira more often? no, it's definitely true.

• ever since he has taken a liking to you, he had started courting you by ensuring your safety and happiness.

• he doesn't know a lot about proper courting, mostly because it didn't interest him for most of his life. his courting is really special, but you don't mind.

• instead of bestowing gifts upon you, he takes you to special places he has found, most of them with a unique smell - a waterfall or a meadow full of flowers.

• he tries to gouge your reactions, mostly trusting his ears and tail, because he sadly can't see your beautiful face.

• you find yourself blushing with the way his ears often twitch around you, trying to listen to your every breath and laugh.

• your favourite times are when a protective tail brushes against your back, inviting you into a long session of cuddling.

[pixiatn]

Returning to my old roots of being the CEO of Duke/Danny

Honestly surprised there's not much fics pulling from the Ultimate Enemy Timeline, and I'm talking Abt post semi redeemed Dan, or Danny's friends and fam die but he doesn't go evil just traumatically runs away, id like to see an in the middle concept. Like post him becoming full ghost but pre him becoming Dan.

Now being a full ghost and a powerful one at that, Danny's chaotic destructive ass makes a beeline straight for Gotham due to its raw supernatural energy that he's heard rumors about from peeps in the Ghost zone. And his ass goes there to chomp on weaker/blob ghosts (idk if it was said how Dan got powerful like that so I'm making shit up)

Like usually some people who see him do this are like "omgee, new hero/protector!!" And he just hisses and vanishes, bro has reached cryptid poltergeist status. he doesn't care about saving people cause that's LAME, and he DOESN'T DO THAT ANYMORE, cause it's LAME, but he doesn't admit that deep, deep, DEEP down, there's a flicker of humanity that buzzes with warmth at being recognized as a protector again

Batfam is obviously suspicious of this deeply suspicious and mistrusting ghost guy but Duke has a bit more of an open minded thinking bro is going through a metahuman crisis and wants to help because there's not a lot of open metahumans in Gotham (that aren't evil) and wants to offer some sort of guidance before the intricate web of evil catches him.

So Duke is investigating Danny on his own, trying to learn more about ghosty dude and how he can find him or help him, eventually learning about the GIW and their attempt to enact anti-ecto laws which by association would allow them to experiment ghost/specter powered metahumans. As well as wanting to take them down, he also wants to find out if they have anything about the Ghost boy he's investigating.

While casually breaking into one of their facilities in Gotham, he finds a group of scientists in the middle of beginning some type of ghost dissection on Danny while hes still awake and thrashing, so as one does, Duke proceeds to jump everyone. In the scuffle, Danny gets freed and is about to escape but actually sticks around to start beating everyone's ass with Duke.

Duke guides Danny out of the building and before he can even say anything, Danny hisses and vanishes. Duke sighs at the loss of his investigations victim but finds himself being almost stalked by the ghost. Dried ectoplasm smeared above doorways which only he can see because of his perception of light, electronics being finicky around him, being surrounded by a cold air, and a whole bunch of semi threatening gestures

Unknown to Duke, this is Danny trying to befriend him aggressively due to kinda forgetting how to do it normally

[opbackgrounds]

What is this? I thought this girl was weaker than me. How can this be? No one else in the crew stands a chance against this girl's powers. And I declared I was the one who could do something about her. I thought this was my chance to help them out. And right when I said that this happens...it's over. I'm done. I can't win against this. It was too much for me to handle. I shouldn't have thought I could really help...Help!

This whole speech is such a beautiful continuation on the character development that started in Enies Lobby. Usopp took the lesson he learned there, that there are certain things that only he can do in the crew, and decided to face Perona alone. But it's hard! Harder than he thought possible! He still needs to reach down into the heroic persona he invented in order to get back up and keep fighting. He's still in 'fake it till you make it' mode, but once he's able to do what he originally thought was possible by defeating Perona, he'll leave the mask behind for good. The lesson will be fully learned, and he'll be able to fully become the person he once had to pretend to be.

[irisintheafterglow]

hii i would like to request the premise of a feral gojo over reader getting hurt or in danger 🤤 please don't feel obligated to write tho only if u feel like it :3

cross them, cross me (gojo x you)

wc: 1.29k

cw/tags: brief but explicit violence including descriptions of blood (satoru beats the shit out of a curse lmao), swearing, angst/fluff with a happy ending, established-ish relationship with pet names baby and sweetheart

note: ah feral gojo my beloved. i think i got a little carried away with writing the violence aspect but what can i say! he really did go feral when you got hurt! anyways, hope you like this anon and thank you for the sweet ask <3

likes, reblogs, and replies are appreciated :))

The sound of bones crunching between his fingers is euphoric.

One by one, he takes the Curse’s limbs in his free hand, the other effortlessly holding it by the neck against a wall. Its desperate wriggles and squirms are futile and pathetic. With a tightened grip, the wretched body parts in Satoru’s palm wither and become a limp slug of skin. He’d tuned out the Curse’s howls of agony minutes ago, the world around him falling silent as he focused all of his energy into making the Curse beg for death. The phrase “seeing red” was familiar to him, sure, but the hue tinting his vision now was a deep shade of crimson. Whether that was from the blood or his own concentration, he didn’t know and he didn’t care. 

“What, did you give up?” His taunting smile turns into a snarl when the Curse fails to answer him the first time. It slumped itself against the wall, but he woke it up with a firm slap across its face. It wasn’t allowed to die, not yet. Not until he’d had his fill of its cries. “Learn your lesson yet?” It coughs out a plea for mercy, but he isn’t satisfied. Times like these were the only time his power truly went directly to his head. 

“Gojo.” Nanami’s voice temporarily breaks him from his trance, but Satoru doesn’t bother glancing his colleague’s way. His hand still remains around the neck of the Curse, scathing blue eyes burning holes into its face. “It’s time to depart.”

“I’m not done yet,” he hisses, embedding the Curse’s face further into the wall. The suit of his coworker is pristine and unscathed; his own uniform, on the other hand, was soaked in blood that wasn’t his own. No, he wasn’t done yet. Not until every Curse within a ten mile vicinity knew exactly what would happen to them if they attempted to harm you again.

“They’re asking about you,” Nanami states impatiently with a quick look at his watch. “And I’m working overtime.”

“Five more minutes,” Satoru commands and Nanami has no choice but to obey, releasing an exhausted sigh and leaving his superior to his crusade. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath, realizing that the Curse must have died while he wasn’t looking. He examines the lifeless creature with pure disgust, flinging it so intensely at the wall behind him that its innards splatter like wet paint. “You are below me,” he says to no one in particular, but he can sense the frightened energy of the weaker Curses inhabiting the building. “Touch them and you will meet the same fate.” 

Once he’s exited the abandoned hospital, taken down the Curtain, and found the alley corner where he’d instructed Nanami to watch you, all remaining malicious intent in his body disappears. You’re scowling at him, your default expression when in his presence, and it reassures him that you’ll be okay. 

“What took you so long?” You wince and try to adjust yourself against the wall, swatting his hand away when he crouches and tries to help you. “I thought Nanami said there was only one Curse in the building.” He shrugs and you give him a skeptical look, slightly less potent than usual due to your injured state. “Toying with a Curse while I’m bleeding out? That’s a new low, even for you.” He knows you mean it in a joking matter, but the darkness that passes over his face after he laughs doesn’t escape you. It unnerves you, a little bit, trying to imagine what he was doing to the Curses when you weren’t there.

“What can I say? I was just trying to make you miss me,” he replies with only the tiniest hint of hesitation. He’s put his blindfold back on, you notice, but the subtle dip in his eyebrows tells you that he’s not revealing the whole truth. “I’m gonna lift you now–”

“I can walk on my own,” you protest, rooting a hand on the concrete and trying to push yourself up to no avail. You fall back against the wall and glare at his silently patronizing expression. “I just need a second.” 

“We don’t have a second. We need to clear out before the police get here,” he reminds you and you wave him off. “C’mon, just let me help you.”

“I can do this on my own,” you reiterate while simultaneously failing to stand. “It’s because you’re watching me. Just turn around.”

“If you wanna see my butt, just say so,” he grins and you roll your eyes. “But, really. I’m gonna lift you now, so try not to wiggle.” His arms extend to cradle beneath your legs and lower back and you’re surprised to feel the fabric of his uniform, not Infinity, when your hands try to push him away. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” you stammer in panic. He pulls away immediately and his teasing expression softens. You let him brush the dirt from your cheeks with one of his hands, the other coming to cover yours on his chest. His heartbeat is unwaveringly steady, his body warm beneath your fingers. 

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. We’re okay,” he reassures you. “Nothing’s gonna hurt you now.”

“It’s gonna hurt when I get up,” you whisper back. “A lot.” 

“I know it will, but it’ll only hurt for a few seconds.” Your exhales are too uneven. He had to get you back to the school if he didn’t want you to continue losing blood. 

“Seconds? What about the car ride back?”

“Oh no, baby. We’re not taking the car.” He shakes his head and gently laces his fingers with yours. “I’m warping us back so we can get that wound taken care of faster.” His grip on your fingers tightens, a crack in his composure revealing a glimpse of his own anxiety. “I just need you to let me help you.” After a few more moments, you nod and he doesn’t hesitate, scooping you into his arms before you can even register the searing pain in your side. The world goes white for a few seconds, just as he said, but then your head finds his shoulder and the pulse in your ears quiets. 

You wake later in the day to the sun casting an orange glow through your bedroom window. As you sit up, the pain in your side is still present but significantly dulled. When your eyes adjust to the light, you finally notice the figure slumped in your desk chair, a respectful distance away from your bed. 

“Satoru.” His eyes fly open and he’s in front of you within seconds, searching your face with concern and running his thumb over your knuckles. You give him the smallest smile you can muster and he reciprocates with a blinding grin. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he murmurs, adjusting his position so that your legs can swing off the side of your bed. He rests on one knee in front of you, holding one hand in his, the other continuing to caress your face. “How are you feeling?”

“A little shitty,” you admit. “But, not nearly as shitty as earlier.”

“I’m glad,” he smiles. “Need me to get you anything? A snack? Two snacks?” Your laugh feels warmer than the setting sun and you shake your head, lightly tugging him to stand up and crawl under the covers with you. “I guess this works too,” he mumbles against the top of your head, pulling you close until you’re snug against his body. 

“What were you doing in the time you were killing that last remaining Curse?” He hums thoughtfully and you swear his muscles flex protectively around your body. 

“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. For now, we both need rest.”

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

[sirenalpha]

I'm seeing so much commentary on people reacting to the live action atla toning down Sokka's misogyny

and I'm over here like this is a total non-issue because in my own rewrite of the show I already did that exact thing, it makes complete sense to do it and they should do it because it's a weaker aspect of the original show

Sokka's early misogyny is utterly cartoonish in comparison to the set up of the rest of the SWT, it doesn't feel realistic for the only teenaged boy in a dying culture surrounded by adult women with a grandmother who left a more out and out misogynist society to act the way he does

how Sokka "resolves" his misogyny is equally cartoonish, I never liked how in The Warriors of Kyoshi literally episode 4 of the show makes a teen girl compromise her own culture with a female only fighting tradition teach a boy who is supremely rude and disrespectful to her and then still be attracted to him afterwards, it's more misogyny to fix misogyny and is very obviously men writing about how to fix misogyny especially as they have Aang make a joke about Sokka wearing a dress after going through how meaningful the fighting costume is and how a lot of Asian clothing with hanfu influences like atla borrows from would have men in what to western eyes would be dresses, Aang has already seen multiple male authority figures in robes, the joke makes no sense

I also wouldn't consider Sokka's misogyny genuinely resolved after this, consider how the show deals with his romantic relationships with both Yue and Suki and how both can be seen as extensions of how Kataang is treated in the show, rewards for the hero, especially with how Sokka interacts aggressively with Hahn instead of respecting Yue's wishes whatever her reasons for them, I think an argument can be made that Yue's death is a fridging for Sokka's storyline rather than or in combination with being a consequence of Aang's failure as an avatar or the culmination of her own storyline where she fulfills her duties as a leader to protect her own people

Beyond his romantic relationships, while Sokka drops a lot of his more misogynistic language with Katara, he doesn't support her when she faces off with the NWT leaders to learn waterbending, and he still leaves the caretaking and food preparation and grocery shopping to her which is more common than him going out to hunt or gather in order to provide for the group while he takes a leadership role like determining their travel schedule and routes, it is not an even division of labor and falls along traditional sex stereotypes

In addition to his typical duties to the group, Sokka also remains invested in the trappings of masculinity after ep4, he's concerned about what's manly and how he compares to Jet for example, there's no investigation or interrogation in his interest in meat and hunting and how they relate to masculinity and his misogyny, in the episode with Piando, his insecurity as a non-bender is resolved by giving him a new male mentor and a new martial skill, sword fighting, which is masculine in both western and Asian cultures rather than assuaging his self esteem issues in any less stereotypically masculine ways, I also think it was done so he could compare more favorably to Zuko, another male character, and even his interest in engineering and mechanics comes with a male mentor and is a traditionally masculine pursuit

the show's poor handling of misogyny also extends beyond Sokka, with the NWT, the show acts as if Pakku is the only reason the tribe is misogynistic and the only consequences to that misogyny is that women can't waterbend and there are arranged marriages, and that both the NWT and Pakku's misogyny is resolved by allowing only Katara to learn to waterbend which she doesn't even earn on her own merits, she gets the opportunity because Pakku likes her grandmother

none of this is realistic, misogyny is not because of one bad apple, Pakku doesn't make Yue's arranged marriage, Chief Arnook does, he picked Hahn for her, and the show acts as if Arnook has no authority to compel Pakku to teach Katara or any ability to persuade him in order to reduce his culpability in the NWT's misogyny as its leader to make him a more respectable character so it's not uncomfortable when Aang and Sokka follow his orders in the battle later on, but women not being able to bend and forced into arranged marriages is still status quo when the gaang leaves, Yue's just dead

I'm not even convinced the show runners understand what's wrong with arranged marriage, the issue is not Yue can't be with Sokka who she likes and at most has a slight crush on cuz she's only known him for like two days, it's that she's being treated as male property, a broodmare, and a vehicle to ensure Hahn receives the throne because her father has no male heir and picked some guy to succeed him instead, like it's not explicit in the show but that is the implication based on the historical reality of princesses in arranged marriages, and the show has her get out of it only through death idc that she ascends to being a spirit, it's still a teen girl that dies

There's also no discussion by the show of the Earth Kingdom's misogyny when it has the exact same shit going on, Toph is the only female earthbender in the show not including avatars, there might have been a female earthbender in the background when Katara broke them out of prison, but I'm not really counting that, the entire army and Dai Li are all made up of men, the EK might even be worse because the show doesn't demonstrate that women and girls even have the capacity to earthbend aside from Toph and avatars and Toph doesn't even learn from a human, she has to learn from animals, the show treats this as commentary on her disability but the show has no compelling reason why it can't also be commentary on her sex, Toph was also originally supposed to be a boy so this could have ended up so much worse there literally would have been no female earthbenders aside from avatars at all, I'm not counting Oma as she might just be a mythological figure not a real person that once lived

The Fire Nation kinda barely avoids the same issue, Azula is the only named female firebender aside from avatars in the show but she has two female sidekicks who despite being non-benders show martial skill and there are clearly female soldiers and guards in the FN military so there are much stronger implications of female firebenders existing and being completely allowed to train their abilities and that Azula isn't exceptional in that respect like Toph is, only for being a prodigy with blue fire

Azula was also originally supposed to have an arranged marriage in s3 and they dropped it in favor of showing that royal and noble girls could casually date in the FN which has wild implications for women's empowerment in the country more so than but especially in combination with the fact women can train and join the military (which is why I say the FN is not fascist it's literally the least misogynistic country aside from Kyoshi and by like a country mile so it's literally not misogynistic enough) not that the show does anything more than minor teen drama with it

again, the vast majority of this misogyny is completely unremarked upon by the show especially after s1 when they leave the NWT, it is clearly a fictional world made by men with no true understanding of misogyny just a vague awareness that misogyny is bad and what the really obvious and outdated examples of it are, this is a narrative inconsistency in the show to have the examples and commentary on misogyny be so cartoonish in the beginning and then disappear after s1

your options to resolve this inconsistency is to either go all in with more realistic misogyny and provide commentary on all of it but this takes effort and will be divisive, or take the easier route and ease off the cartoonish-ness of it and comment less on it to avoid drawing attention to all instances of misogyny in the show

obviously Netflix was gonna do the latter

(not me tho, I'm making it less cartoony and dealing with it in my rewrite)

[idkyetxoxo]

Daemon Targaryen - Practice Makes Perfect

Summary - What begins as a quest for knowledge about pleasure spirals into a dangerous affair that blurs the lines of loyalty and longing. As their nights ignite with passion, she must confront the intoxicating thrill of betrayal and the dark secrets of desire that threaten to consume them.

Pairing - Daemon Targaryen x reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!!!), strong language, infidelity

Word count - 2890

Masterlist for Daemon • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

"It's just practice, that's all it is," I murmured, though the words felt hollow, slipping off my lips as if they could somehow transform into truth. As if saying them might lessen the weight of what we were doing.

"Is it really?" Daemon's retort came quickly, his infamous smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. He always had that maddening smirk, knowing damn well how it got under my skin. 

I rolled my eyes, pretending to be unaffected, but the heat stirring between us was undeniable.

The night outside was pitch black, darker than usual, but inside his chambers, the flickering glow of scattered candles illuminated our shared wickedness. 

The dim light threw shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw, his eyes smouldering as we peeled away some of our clothes layer by sinful layer. 

This had become a nightly ritual, one I never imagined for myself, especially now that I was married.

But Daemon had returned to the city, and here I was—bound in a respectable union by day but come nightfall, I burned for him. 

Each time, I told myself it would be the last, but the lie grew weaker with every night I found myself tangled in his sheets. 

The anticipation consumed me during the day, knowing what awaited once the sun disappeared. My skin would hum with need, my body craving the touch only he could deliver.

I craved him. Every fibre of me, from my blood to my bones, needed this—needed him.

Within minutes, our hands found each other, greedy and impatient. My fingers traced the hard lines of his shoulders, snaking around his neck as our mouths crashed together in a desperate, heated kiss. 

His lips tasted like sin, like the very essence of danger, and I couldn't get enough. 

His hands slid down my waist, firm and possessive, until they gripped my hips, effortlessly guiding me back onto the bed.

He didn't break the kiss, his mouth still devouring mine, as his fingers trailed lower, parting my legs with deliberate slowness. 

I gasped into his mouth when his fingers grazed my slick folds, and a contented grin creased his face as he felt how ready I was for him.

"Can we still call it practice," he teased, pulling back just enough for his words to cut through my fog of need, "if I'm doing all the work?"

I sighed at the loss of his touch, but his hand found its way back to me, rubbing over my soaked heat. 

"So wet... so desperate," he murmured, pressing his palm against me as I ground down instinctively.

"A true pillow princess," he whispered, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "There's no skill in this," he added, sliding a finger inside me with tantalizing slowness.

I let out a low moan, arching into his touch. 

"You say that as if you don't love every second of it," I breathed, rolling my hips to meet his rhythm as he added another finger, stretching me deliciously.

"When you came to me, asking to learn," he emphasized with a wicked grin, increasing his pace until I was squirming beneath him, "I expected more effort." 

His tone was playful, but the truth was there, lingering between us like a dangerous secret.

It had all started innocently enough, or so I tried to convince myself. 

When my marriage to Gwayne Hightower was arranged, insecurity gnawed at me. I knew nothing of what it meant to please a man, let alone one like Gwayne, whose reputation was as pristine as it was boring. 

And Daemon—well, Daemon was notorious for his expertise in many areas, seduction being one of them. Who better to teach me than the rogue prince himself?

Daemon had jumped at the chance, of course. He relished the idea of defiling a Hightower's bride-to-be, of marking me with a pleasure Gwayne could never hope to match. 

According to Daemon, this was a gift—a splendid one. His hands, his mouth, his entire body lavishing attention on me until I was delirious with it.

But now, with each passing night, it no longer felt like a lesson. 

It was something darker, something far more dangerous, and I couldn't bring myself to stop. 

The way he moved, the way he made my body sing with need as if only he could satisfy the hunger he'd awoken within me... it was intoxicating.

He pressed deeper, curling his fingers inside me just right, and I lost whatever thought I had left. 

The room spun, the candlelight flickering in rhythm with our laboured breaths. I was nothing but sensation—heat, desire, and Daemon.

"More effort?" I gasped, half-laughing, half-moaning as he quickened his pace, drawing me closer to the edge. "I think... I'm doing just fine."

A dark chuckle escaped his throat as he leaned in, his lips brushing my ear. "Oh, darling," he whispered, his voice a tantalizing growl, "you've only just begun."

A spark of defiance flickered in my chest at his teasing words. I wasn't about to let Daemon, of all people, write me off so easily. 

"Let me prove you wrong, then," I whispered, my voice laced with a challenge as I pushed against his chest, flipping us over in one fluid motion.

His eyes widened, but that smug grin never left his face. He raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by my sudden assertiveness. 

I straddled his hips, feeling the hard length of him beneath me, and for a moment, I just let the sensation flood me, the power shift intoxicating. 

My heart raced as I leaned down, pressing my lips to his once more, but this time, I controlled the kiss—slow, teasing, pulling him deeper into the web I was spinning.

His hands settled on my thighs, fingers digging into my skin as if to anchor himself. But I wasn't going to let him lead this time. 

I trailed kisses down his jawline, then lower, brushing my lips along his neck, savouring the taste of him as his breath hitched. I could feel his muscles tense beneath me, his chest rising and falling in ragged anticipation as I worked my way down his body.

"You think I can't learn?" I murmured against his skin, tracing the line of his collarbone with my tongue.

Daemon chuckled, a low, dangerous sound that sent shivers down my spine. "Oh, you can learn, sweet girl," he replied, voice thick with desire. "But let's see just how well you take instruction."

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks, but it wasn't from embarrassment—it was from the thrill of the game. 

His words were both a challenge and an invitation, and I intended to prove him wrong in the most wicked way possible.

I continued my descent, letting my lips brush over the hard planes of his abdomen, his skin burning hot beneath my touch. His body was a map I had begun to memorize, but tonight I wanted to explore every inch of it in a way that left him trembling. 

As I reached the line of his trousers, I paused, glancing up at him through my lashes. 

His eyes were dark, hooded with desire, but there was that glint of amusement, always ready to mock, always in control.

Not tonight.

I made quick work of the fabric, freeing him from his trousers and wrapping my hand around the base of his cock. He let out a sharp breath, and I felt his whole body tense in response. 

For a moment, I just held him there, letting him feel the weight of my power, my control. 

Then, without breaking eye contact, I lowered my head, licking a slow, deliberate line along the length of him.

Daemon's head fell back against the pillows, a low groan escaping his lips. "Good," he breathed, his voice rough. "But slower. Tease me."

I smiled wickedly, taking his advice, swirling my tongue around the tip before sucking gently. His hand found my hair, threading through the strands, not to force but to guide. 

"Take it deeper," he murmured, his voice husky with need. "Use your tongue."

I obeyed, hollowing my cheeks as I took more of him into my mouth, letting my tongue dance along the underside of his shaft. His grip in my hair tightened, and I could feel his hips twitch beneath me, the barely restrained urge to thrust deeper. 

But I wasn't going to let him take over. Not yet.

"Relax your throat," he groaned, guiding me with slow, steady movements. "Let it slide all the way down."

I did as he instructed, relaxing, allowing him to fill my mouth until I could feel the tip of him brushing the back of my throat. 

A strangled moan escaped him, and I couldn't help the rush of satisfaction that surged through me. 

The power I felt in this moment, with Daemon—the rogue prince, the man who controlled so much—utterly undone beneath me, was unlike anything I had ever known.

"Just like that," he praised, his voice rough and breathless. "Fuck, you're good at this."

I hummed around him, taking him even deeper, feeling the way his body responded to every movement of my mouth. His hips bucked involuntarily, and I could tell he was holding himself back, letting me take the lead for once. 

The thrill of it, the raw pleasure of having him at my mercy, made my core throb with need.

"Faster," he commanded, his voice tight now, the control slipping as the pleasure built inside him. "Don't stop, just like that—"

His words were cut off by a groan as I quickened my pace, my hand working in tandem with my mouth, sliding up and down his shaft. 

His breathing grew ragged, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he fought to maintain composure, but I could feel him unravelling, the tension building in his muscles as he neared the edge.

I kept going, my mouth moving faster, more desperate, eager to draw out every sound, every moan from his lips. 

His hand tightened in my hair, and I could feel his body start to tremble beneath me. 

"Fuck—" he gasped, his hips bucking again as he finally gave in to the pleasure, no longer able to hold back.

I pulled away just before he could finish, smiling as I met his wide-eyed stare. 

"Still think I'm just a pillow princess?" I teased, licking my lips, tasting the salt of him still on my tongue.

He let out a breathless laugh, his chest heaving as he tried to recover. 

"You're full of surprises," he admitted, his voice low and hoarse. "But trust me, darling—now that you've proven your point, I'll have you begging for mercy soon enough."

I raised an eyebrow, leaning over him, my lips just inches from his. "I look forward to it," I whispered, before crashing my mouth onto his, ready for round two.

Without a word, he gripped my hips, and in a fluid, effortless motion, he flipped me back onto my back, his weight pressing me into the mattress. 

The look in his eyes was dangerous—predatory. His smirk was back, and I felt my pulse quicken, excitement and anticipation coiling tight in my belly.

"You think you can play with me like that?" he growled, his voice low and thick, every word dripping with dark promise. "Now it's my turn."

Before I could respond, he thrust into me with a sudden, powerful movement, burying himself deep inside me in one swift stroke. 

A gasp tore from my lips, my body arching up to meet his as the sudden fullness overwhelmed my senses. The feeling of him, hard and thick inside me, sent a shockwave of pleasure through my body, and I couldn't stop the moan that escaped.

"Daemon," I whispered, my fingers digging into his back as he set a punishing rhythm, each thrust harder than the last. 

He filled me completely, the friction, the heat, everything was too much and not enough all at once. I was drowning in the sensation of him, every nerve in my body alight with need.

"Say my name again," he commanded, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. His voice sent a shiver down my spine, but I was too breathless to answer. 

He pulled back, only to slam into me again, harder this time, his hands gripping my hips with bruising force as he drove deeper.

"Daemon," I moaned, my voice shaking as his hips snapped against mine. He was relentless, claiming me with every stroke, and I knew there was no room for resistance. 

Not that I wanted to resist—I wanted this. I wanted him. 

I wanted to lose myself in this forbidden pleasure that only Daemon could give me.

"You're mine tonight," he growled, his hand sliding up my body, fingers wrapping around my throat, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me who was in control. 

"Not Gwayne's. He'll never fuck you like this, will he?"

His words hit me like a slap, a wicked jolt of arousal and guilt twisting together in my chest. 

Gwayne. My husband. The man I was supposed to be loyal to, faithful to. But the thought of him right now only made the heat between my legs burn hotter. 

Daemon was right—Gwayne could never make me feel like this. Never make me lose control, unravel at the seams the way Daemon did.

"No," I gasped, my eyes locking with his, daring him to push me further, to make me admit the truth that had been burning inside me since the first night Daemon touched me.

"No," I repeated, my voice trembling, "he never could."

Daemon's grin widened, a dark, satisfied gleam in his eyes. "Poor Gwayne," he mocked, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he picked up the pace, his thrusts growing faster, harder, the sound of our bodies colliding filling the room. 

"He has no idea, does he? No idea that his perfect little wife is in my bed every night, legs spread, begging for more."

His words sent a bolt of shame through me, but it only fueled my desire. 

There was no denying the truth—Daemon had me, body and soul, in a way Gwayne never could. I should have felt disgusted with myself, but all I felt was need—desperate, consuming need.

"No," I gasped again, my fingers curling into the sheets, holding on for dear life as Daemon's pace became brutal, his hips driving into me with a relentless force that had me teetering on the edge of oblivion. "Please, Daemon, don't stop."

"I'm not stopping," he growled, his breath hot against my neck as he thrust deeper, harder, his hand tightening ever so slightly around my throat. 

"I'm going to fuck you until all you can think about is me. Not him. Me."

A low moan escaped me, and I could feel myself spiralling, my body trembling as I neared the edge. 

Every nerve in my body was on fire, the pleasure building inside me until it was almost unbearable.

"Daemon," I whimpered, my voice barely a whisper as the tension in my belly coiled tighter, tighter, until I thought I might snap. "I—I'm going to—"

"Cum for me," he commanded, his voice dark and commanding, his lips brushing mine as he continued to pound into me, pushing me closer and closer to the edge. 

"Let him hear it from across the city. Let him know who really owns you."

And with that, I shattered. My orgasm crashed over me like a tidal wave, my body convulsing beneath him as pleasure ripped through me, my vision going white as I screamed his name. 

Every muscle in my body tensed, my toes curling as I rode the waves of pleasure that seemed to go on forever.

Daemon didn't stop, didn't slow. He continued to fuck me through my orgasm, his own breath coming faster, more ragged as he neared his own release. 

The sound of my name on his lips, the feel of his body moving against mine—it was overwhelming, intoxicating. I wanted him to cum, wanted to feel him lose control the way he made me.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he groaned, his pace becoming erratic, his thrusts more desperate as he chased his release. "I can't—"

With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself inside me, his body going rigid as he came, his grip on my hips tightening. 

A low, guttural moan escaped his lips as he spilt into me, and the feeling of his warmth flooding my body sent a final aftershock of pleasure through me.

For a moment, we stayed like that, our bodies tangled together, slick with sweat, our breaths coming in heavy pants. Slowly, Daemon pulled out of me, collapsing onto the bed beside me, his chest still heaving with exertion. 

He ran a hand through his dishevelled hair, his smirk returning as he glanced over at me.

"You might want to keep this between us," he drawled lazily, his voice smug as ever. "Wouldn't want poor Gwayne to get jealous, now, would we?"

I shot him a look, my heart still pounding, but I couldn't help the small smile tugging at the corners of my lips. 

He was infuriating, arrogant, and insufferable, but damn it, I wanted him all the more for it.

"You're insufferable," I muttered, rolling my eyes as I caught my breath.

"Maybe," he said, his smirk deepening. "But admit it—you love it."

I turned my head away, biting my lip to stifle a smile. He wasn't wrong. 

And that, I knew, was the most dangerous truth of all.

A/n - This was a rollercoaster of a writing experience I don't think I've ever written smut this long 😭😭

[elsm44]

friends? what friends?

club!ellie x fem!reader (dni -18)

you and ellie meet at a club after your friends ditch, only she has a few things in mind that might make your night a little better… 🌚

warnings: nsfw, cunnilingus, some dirty talk, a little boob stuff, lots of pet names, lowkey in public…, that’s it i think (also not proofread)

the blue club lights gave a rough shadow and outline to every body in the place. loud rap music bounced off the walls, enough to give you a headache if you focused on the noise long enough. pushing through the crowd, you were calling your friends’ names, who were no where to be found.

“callie? mason? liv?” it was no use over the music, but you tried again anyway. “callie?” you yelled louder. “mason? liv?”

people just whipped their heads around and stared at you like it was your fault you ended up in this mess. you told your friends you had to use the bathroom and they swore they’d stay in one spot while you were gone. when you got back? they were gone. again. not the first time this happened, and definitely not the last. you really need to get better friends, you thought.

you decided it was time to get some high ground so you worked your way up to the second floor of the club and scanned your eyes across the room. no sign of them, and not a single idea where they could’ve ended up. usually there was a clue, but this time there wasn’t.

“all alone princess?” a low voice questioned from behind you.

princess?

“excuse me?” you turned yourself around and made eye contact with likely one of the most attractive women you’d ever seen. the dim lighting carved out her toned muscles and made her stare even that more piercing, making your knees a little weak. you pretend you haven’t noticed that feeling as you wait for her response.

“did someone leave you alone? ‘ya look like you’re lookin’ for someone. hm?” the woman leaned against the railing on her back with her elbows holding her up, beer in hand. you examined her face more: the gorgeous freckles sprawled out across her face, her button nose, her full (and kissable) lips, and her hair, tied back half-up-half-down. her outfit was less than underwhelming, but she found a way to make it sexy as all hell: a black hoodie, some black cargo pants, and shoes you couldn’t quite make out under the dark lighting. you did notice the rings on her fingers though, which made your knees even weaker.

“you checkin’ me out?”

you hadn’t realized you were in such a daze. “hm?” you snap out of it, and realize you were shamelessly looking at her hands.

“where are your people, baby?”

you shake your head in anger, honestly livid enough to start crying. “i have no fucking clue. but at this point i don’t care. fuck ‘em.” you roll your eyes and run a hand through your hair.

“just like that, huh? what’s your name mama?” the woman looks you over, examining your tight black tube dress and your silver heels. your silver jewelry accented you beautifully in the blue light, and everything added together was enough to make her swoon. not to mention your scent.

you sighed. “y/n. you?”

she smiles. “that’s a real pretty name, but i’m still gonna call you mama, yeah? i’m ellie.” you try to hide your smile at her shameless flirting.

“promise you won’t ditch me like my asshole friends?”

ellie leans down and in so close to your ear, her lips could brush against you. “i would never mama. now let’s get you a beer, hm? or are you classier than that?” she leans back and smirks.

you two make your way through the crowd to the bar and order two new beers, one for each of you, since she finished hers on your way back downstairs. you sat down on the barstools and began to tell little things about yourselves.

she learned you were a sophomore in college, hoping to make it to the big leagues as a film director. you have a cat named simon, you love lily flowers, and you especially love women.

you learned she’s also a sophomore, a full-time astrophysics student (hello? fuck me already). her dad died about two years back, she’s a stoner, and also, evidentially, loves women.

ellie leaned down to your ear again, this time almost kissing it as she spoke, “why don’t we go downstairs to the lounge? there’s bound to be less people there, yeah?” she leans back and raises an eyebrow, you can only nod because of the rush washing over you.

down at the lounge, surprisingly, there was only two other people there, and they were on the other side of the room. you could only imagine what activities they were up to over there. ellie grabs your hand, “c’mon mama.”

she sits you two down on a round booth and sets your beers down for you two, which she willingly carried downstairs herself. you two sit next to each other, and for just a moment stare into each others’ eyes drunkenly.

“i’m so glad my friends ditched me, ellie.”

“yeah? why’s that, hm?” she smiled and began to rub your thigh, draped over her lap, with her warm hand. the frigidness of her rings made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

“‘cause i wouldn’t be able to do this.” you climbed on top of her lap and almost immediately her hands grasped your waist, like it was where they were meant to be all along.

she smirked at this little game you started. “and i wouldn’t be able to do this.” she whispers before latching her lips to your neck. you gasp and flip your hair over to one side so that the area is free for her to work with. you let little breathy moans out and they lead straight to her eardrums, which make her suck on your skin harder.

“i know, y/n. let it out quietly.”

her words of comfort made you weaker on top of her. her hands around your waist went from just touching you because she wanted to to having to hold you steady. she pulled away and finally latched her lips to yours.

she tasted like vanilla chapstick, and her lips were soft and warm. you had missed making out with someone, but this time it was different. it felt right.

both of your breathing both picked up as the making out became sloppier and sloppier, her hands exploring your body. her crotch pushed up against your pussy, which was now only covered by your thin layer of panties under your dress. you pulled back to look around for a second.

“we should go to a bathroom.”

“nah, let’s stay right here mama. is everyone else gone?”

you looked down at her, out of breath, and hummed yes in response. she admired the bruising beginning to form on your neck before answering back to you.

“okay, we can stay here then. yeah?”

“yeah.” your answer was breathy, and you noticed the way you squirmed under her hands, which were pushing you down on to her pants even more. “ellie…”

she immediately kissed your lips again but quickly trailed kisses down your neck and to your chest. she pulled your tube dress down a little to expose your breasts and sucked on your nipples.

she swirled her tongue around each one, taking her time. she pinched the other while very gently nibbling on you, making you moan softly into her ear. her other hand trailed down to in between your legs and up your dress, rubbing your pussy slowly.

“mm..” was all you could get out as she slowly drew circles around your clothed clit.

“i wanna hear you say my name baby.” you could again, only moan in response.

she finally pulls back and says, “here, mama. climb off for a sec.” you climb off of her in confusion, thinking you did something wrong. slowly, ellie crawled and made her way under the table. “c’mere baby.” she waved her fingers for you to move up.

she pulled your legs apart and slowly moved your panties to the side. she quietly moaned at the sight of your bare pussy right in front of her face. it was perfect, every inch of it, and she couldn’t be more excited to make it pulse on her tongue.

without warning, she dove in. she swirled her tongue and sucked on your sensitive bud, causing you to have to hold a hand over your mouth, knowing someone could walk in at any second. you used your other hand to pull your dress up just in case, and then let it find its way down to ellie’s hair.

ellie sucked and licked and flicked her tongue on you like you were her final meal. “i know baby, you like that, hm?” she would say as her tongue slipped in and out of your hole. using the other hand that wasn’t holding your panties to the side, she inserted a finger and began to pump in and out of your pussy.

“oh, god. ellie!” you threw your head back and ground your pussy against her tongue as she sucked harder and harder. once she threw in her second finger, it was over for you. you began to hyperventilate over all of the sensations at once and moaned under the loud music. “please!”

finally, into her mouth, your juices spilled. your body shook as she had to use both hands to hold your legs down. you were a squirming and whining mess over her. she licked your pussy clean, put your panties back into place, and climbed back up next to you, wiping her mouth with the inside of her hoodie sleeve.

“still thinking about your friends?” you giggled at her cheeky question, and kissed her one more time.

“friends? what friends?” there’s only ellie now.

-

a/n

ermmm this is my first time writing like this on tumblr… i hope it isn’t too bad! i’m definitely gonna write more than just smut though

[stoned-frog]

Nightmare's aura and how it works in my interpretation

One side of Night's aura is the one that is “default” to him, where he spreads negative emotions making it uneasy for others to be near him for long periods of time due to discomfort they feel being with him. It never affected Dream as his own aura canceled Nightmare's. It's not influenced by Nightmare's emotions, but training helped him be able to lower Its power or enhance it, whenever he wants to. At Its strongest it can implement unexplainable fear and paralyze the opponent from terror they can't understand. He of course can't use it frequently because that would be overpowered.

The other side of his aura he learned by himself is where it calms others down, works both ways in intensity just like the “fear aura” ranging from pleasant calmness to a state of chill when one doesn't care much about anything. Part of this is also making the person sleepy or sluggish which can also be used in battle. For example, a person fighting Nightmare suddenly gets very tired, their legs tremble and their eyes can't stay open for long, slowly losing consciousness.

With both auras, “spells” can be cast, it just means a specific aura is channeled onto one person to affect them specifically.

There are certain situations and people that his spells don’t work on, for example Ink and Dream. Dream can only be affected when the spell is very strong and it doesn’t work at all on Ink since it’s mostly emotion based.

Of course every drastic change to Nightmare's aura or casting channeled spells makes him weaker and when he wants to use a strong spell he has to estimate how long he can keep it up so he doesn't tire himself out.

Dream's part

[ckret2]

Chapter 47 of human Bill Cipher thinking that being imprisoned in the Mystery Shack is looking pretty good right now:

The Eclipse: Part 5

Bill and Ford are just... so energized and enthusiastic after their near death experience. Not to mention fashionable.

But they've got nothing on Dipper.

And, at long last, Ford and Dipper badger Bill—who's just too tired to lie—into explaining what kind of an "eclipse" involves a giant flying axolotl making gravity disappear.

####

When they reached the cave, Ford discovered that his antique lantern was too waterlogged to light.

"I'm not sure how we're getting to the top now," Ford said. The cavern directly behind the waterfall had some ambient lighting, but it wouldn't carry very far. "I know you can see, but I don't trust you to lead me through a cave system in the dark, no offense." He was surprised at himself for saying no offense.

"If I was planning to let you fall off a cliff, I could've saved myself a swim in the lake." Bill had taken off his backpack and was rummaging through it. "Didn't your lantern go out when you took four-eyes hiking through here? You should have learned your lesson."

Bill must have meant Fiddleford, though it was strange to hear him single out Fiddleford as "four-eyes" when Ford wore glasses too. "I did learn my lesson. I brought three flashlights as backup," Ford said. "Which are in Dipper's backpack."

Bill laughed weakly.

"Did you bring a flashlight?"

"Better." Bill pulled out a kazoo. He blew a stream of water from it, shook it, and then took a deep breath and played a long high note that wavered up and down.

Ford cringed at the noise. "Bill, what—?"

Bill held up a finger to silence Ford. Okay, fine. He was curious now.

It took a few moments of increasingly irritating kazoo playing, but Ford heard a soft clinking sound coming from the deeper caverns; and then several geodites—small creatures that looked like stone orbs with crystal limbs and teeth and glowing eyes—curiously emerged into the main cavern. Ford hadn't seen these creatures since he'd documented them in the eighties. He hadn't known they could be summoned via kazoo. They began making a high pitched humming along with Bill's kazooing. 

"There you are." Bill stuffed the kazoo into his backpack and crouched down, holding out a hand until a couple of geodites crept closer to inspect it; and then he scooped up the closest one. The others startled into breaking off singing, but hovered nearby, chirping and clicking. "Okay, grab a flashlight." The light the geodites' eyes gave off wasn't very bright; but it was enough for Ford to see Bill's smug smirk. They proceeded into the caves, and a dozen-odd more geodites—perhaps out of curiosity, perhaps out of concern for the two hostages—followed along behind them.

The climb went much slower than it had just a few hours earlier. Unsurprisingly, without low gravity on his side, Bill was the holdup this time. Not only was he not as experienced in spelunking as Ford, but between his waterlogged dress shoes and his borrowed trout slippers he didn't have any appropriate footwear, and he'd elected to carefully climb barefoot again. When Ford had climbed up this path with Fiddleford in the 80s, it had been a six hour climb. He had no idea how long it would take with Bill.

But even at that, Ford hadn't expected Bill to need to pause so often to get his energy back. It seemed like the more Ford recovered from their fall in the lake, the weaker Bill got. In any other situation, he'd suspect Bill of slowing them down on purpose, but after... well, even that aside, Ford couldn't think of any reason Bill would want to delay getting home.

"It's just this body that's dizzy," Bill said, the fourth time they had to stop for him to sit. "Probably one of those... counterproductive stress reactions human bodies get." He wiped a film of sweat off his forehead, then stopped to examine how his hand trembled when his geodite's spotlight eyes fixed on it. "That or it's because I've only had a handful of cereal for the past two days."

Ford stared at him. "You what? Why?"

Bill shrugged. "Body wouldn't let me get more down. Wasn't my idea."

"Well, for goodness's sake, eat something now."

Bill took off his backpack, pulled out a cereal box, and opened it. He grimaced. He poured out a puddle of sugary lake water and dissolved cereal.

Of course. "Here." Ford pulled a tube of astronaut meat out of his backpack and offered it over. "It's not the most nutritionally complete meal supplement, but it's something. It'll have protein."

Bill took the tube with a grimace, but squeezed out a dollop of meat paste and licked it; and then he gagged so hard he doubled over. He clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from retching and offered the tube back. "Mmmf." The geodite hopped out of his lap in alarm and retreated to the group of hangers-on traveling with them.

The meat paste wasn't great, but that was a disproportionate reaction out of the alien who liked to mix chocolate sauce and mustard. This was a bigger problem than Ford had anticipated. "Keep it. If you can get down even a tiny bit every few minutes, that's better than nothing."

Bill nodded jerkily.

"I think it's better if we reach Dipper and get out of here as soon as possible."

Bill nodded more enthusiastically.

What would they do if Bill couldn't make it the whole way? Would Ford have to leave him in the cave and come back for him later? Ford hadn't tied the infinity belt's cable to Bill like he'd meant to, he just realized. It seemed unnecessarily cruel to try now; but it might be useful if he did have to leave Bill behind. He didn't know that they had any better option, he couldn't carry Bill all the way up and down. Especially since Bill had let go of his geodite, and Ford suspected the rest might abandon them if he put down his own...

They'd have to figure that out if it came to it. For now, they kept walking—Ford glancing back regularly to check on Bill, and Bill pretending he didn't notice.

####

After another half hour and another two increasingly frequent breaks, Ford saw a faint light in the tunnels ahead—yellow-white, not like the geodites' natural blues and purples. "Bill, is that...?"

"Hm?" Bill looked in the direction Ford was pointing. His right eye twitched, and then he had to squeeze his eyes shut in pain. "Yep. Boy child at 12 o'clock."

Ford called out, "Dipper?"

"Great Uncle Ford!" Dipper's voice echoed through the caves. There was a sound of clattering rocks as Dipper scrabbled down the tunnel to join them. The geodites scattered in fear, peering out from behind stalagmites as Dipper's flashlight swept over the scene. "Grunkle Ford! Are you okay?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Are you—?"

Dipper collided with Ford to hug him. (Ford held his geodite out to the side so he could return a one-armed hug.) "I'm so sorry I saw you go over the cliff but I couldn't do anything I was in the mindscape the whole time something sucked my soul out of my body—"

"Not it, I'm innocent," Bill said unnecessarily, "nobody look at me." He'd taken advantage of the break to immediately sit on the ground. His abandoned geodite crept back over to check on him.

"—and—and wow, that was the Axolotl you were talking about, right?" Dipper let go of Ford to gesture like a fisherman demonstrating the size of an enormous catch, "It was huge, it had to be—I don't know, as long as the county? The whole state? How did it get so big? Is the Axolotl an alien or some kind of mutant Earth axolotl? Are all axolotls aliens—?"

"Now, hold on," Ford said, putting a hand on Dipper's shoulder, "what huge axolotl? What are you talking about?"

"You didn't see it?" Dipper paused, looked Ford up and down, and said, "What are you wearing?"

Ford grimaced, tugged his bandanna up a little higher, and turned his geodite away when it tried to aim its spotlight eyes at his neck to see what he was doing. "We had to borrow some dry clothes."

"He couldn't see the Axolotl," Bill said. "You shouldn't have, either."

"Sor-ry. Getting sucked out of my body wasn't my idea—"

"Hold on," Ford said again. "What do you mean, sucked out of your body?"

As they headed back down toward the waterfall, Dipper and Ford exchanged their versions of events. It didn't take long for them to realize Bill had saved both their lives with a swift efficiency that, had it been applied to any less altruistic a task, could have been called "ruthless." They didn't say anything, but neither one could stop from glancing back toward Bill.

"What?" he snapped, clinging to his geodite a little tighter like he thought they were planning to take it. "I don't owe you an explanation. You're not dead! Be grateful. Stop looking at me."

They stopped looking at him. Bill should be gloating about them owing him their lives. He should be convincing them they had to pay back their debt. Silence alone would have been worrying; but bristling like he wanted them to forget what he'd done was baffling.

As Dipper finished explaining his version of events, he said, "I think I remember meeting the Axolotl before—like you said." He directed this last comment back over his shoulder toward Bill.

Bill—whose entire attention had been focused for the last ten minutes on walking without collapsing, tripping, or dropping his geodite—simply muttered, "My condolences."

"Wait," Ford said, "You've... met a giant invisible axolotl before?"

"Mabel and I both did."

"When?"

Dipper opened his mouth, paused, and glanced back again at Bill for help.

It took a few seconds for Bill to register the question. "Oh—they've never met before. Not in this reality."

Exasperated, Dipper asked, "Then why do I remember it?"

"I told you—echoes," Bill said. When Dipper continued giving him an expectant look, Bill sighed deeply and said, "This is an embarrassing oversimplification, but you're at least familiar with the concept of branching timelines, right?"

"Of course I am. Every time you make a decision, the timeline splits into two paths—"

"Cute that you think it caps out at two," Bill said. "And a decision doesn't always split the timeline, sometimes the branches collapse back together depending on the gravity of the decision you made. I don't literally mean a decision 'you' made—you've never made a decision that important—but sure, you've got the basic idea."

"Fine," Dipper snapped. "So I met it on another branch, right? When?"

"Never," Bill said.

"Okay. Yes. But there is a branch where... some version of me met it. Right?"

"It depends on how you define 'is.'"

Dipper puffed out his cheeks with the effort of restraining a yell. He looked at Ford for either help or sympathy.

Ford winked surreptitiously at Dipper and said, "It's probably some complicated chronological issue. I doubt Bill can explain it in a way humans can understand." Under his breath, he loudly muttered, "Some 'teacher.'"

Bill straight-armed Ford aside to walk beside Dipper. "You humans have no sense of humor," he said. "I said you met him never because it's literally true. You had an accident that landed you in a time and space outside time and space—the meeting happened never and nowhere. It's where he prefers to take visitors. That timeline terminated after your meeting—and I don't mean you died, I mean he terminated that entire timeline."

"Really?" Dipper shivered. "With... With everyone in it? Why did he do that? Did something dangerous happen in that timeline, or was it unstable, or...?"

"That's how he usually ends casual meet-and-greets," Bill said. "Higher dimensional beings. He sees your reality from a perspective unimaginable to you. Remember when I told you you're just a movie projecting on a wall to him; he's got no problem with pulling the film out of the reel to inspect a few frames and then turning the entire projector off when he's done. What does he care if that's somebody's entire reality?" He paused to think that over. "Maybe the projector metaphor's getting strained. Imagine flipping through a book with all the pages out of order, and meeting him is like somehow flipping to a page outside the book... No, that's a little too contrived. I'll stick with the projector."

"When did we... when would we have met him?" Dipper asked. "And—when I say 'when' I mean—you know what I mean."

"You mean, when would you have made the decisions that could have led to you meeting him? Depending on your perspective, either last August or 207̃05. Time travel was involved."

"Last August..." Dipper thought back. "Was that when we were—?"

"Treasure hunting, yeah. By the by, I never asked—" Bill gestured vaguely around them at everything in general, "—which dimension did I end up in? Is this the one where you went hunting in the 1400s or 1800s?"

"Uh—1800s."

"Hm. Knew this wasn't a 207̃05 treasure hunt timeline, Questiony doesn't have a pet enslaved time pirate."

"A what?"

"So you never had a chance of meeting the Axolotl anyway," Bill said. "Hey, fun fact! Did you know there's a time pocket where twelve million alternate versions of you, your sister, and the puppet with the goggles failed at your quest and plummeted out of time? I wonder how long the last of them survived! I meant to check in after Weirdmageddon. Human flesh isn't that nutritious and doesn't have much water, but with millions of bodies and a little determination— Hey, wanna know how long you all were there before you started resorting to cannibalism—?"

"No," Ford said before Dipper had to. "And I'll thank you not to get off topic to try to give my gnephew more nightmares."

Bill shot him a sideways glance. "Remind me to tell you about the time pocket formed by all the timelines where you and Specs did your first portal test without checking your math."

"So if I wasn't even supposed to meet him—how did I see him today?" Dipper asked. "Did he pull me out of my body into the mindscape so we could talk, or...? But he didn't even tell me anything, was he just trying to get me to remember meeting him in the terminated timeline—?"

"He wasn't trying to do anything," Bill said. "He wasn't here for you, he didn't care. Shadow on the wall."

"Then what was he here for? You?"

It took Bill too long to answer. He just shrugged vaguely. "Probably not."

"Huh." Instead of questioning Bill, Dipper briefly turned introspective himself, gaze far away and thoughtful. "I think I remember a little more about meeting the Axolotl now. The first time, I mean."

"Oh, do you?" Bill asked. "Ha! Poor kid."

"Mabel and I were in some kind of rocket car?" Dipper's brows furrowed in concentration. "And the Axolotl had a... bean bag chair?"

Bill scoffed. "He still has that old thing?! Wow."

"It was really comfortable."

"It's also really tacky."

"You talked about him like he was some kind of... of big... eldritch cosmic horror thing," Dipper said. "What kind of a cosmic horror has bean bag chairs?"

"What, do you think being a vast multidimensional amphibious monstrosity with an incomprehensible mind and a body that can only been seen in lower dimensions as grotesque shapeshifting cross-sections protects you from having bad taste? He'll flay your sanity straight out of your gray matter—and you won't even have the comfort of knowing your mind-shredder had nice interior decor sensibilities!"

"I can sympathize with the experience," Ford muttered. "I was driven to the brink of paranoid madness by a nightmare demon who thinks Doric columns go with checkerboard flooring."

Bill let out a shrill "Ha!" and smacked Ford's shoulder.

"But he remembered me when we met," Dipper went on. "He told me to say hi to Mabel. And—the last time we met, we—talked. I don't remember it all yet, but... you were wrong about him. There was nothing insanity-inducing about him. He was just... nice."

"You don't think the madness sets in all at once, do you?" Bill turned back to Dipper, with an air of what Ford uncomfortably felt like was ill intent. "Go on then—what did you talk about? You can't remember it, can you? Why not? Just a harmless little conversation, right?"

Dipper frowned in thought. "There was something important, but—I can't remember what it was. What was it?" He muttered, "I know it was something important—"

"And there we go!" Bill gestured at Dipper with a flourish, triumphant. "Now you're digging for the significance of the whole thing. You're trying to comprehend the motives of something that has a state of existence your mind wasn't built to understand! You'll either go mad trying to understand his motives—or you'll go mad because you do understand. You're doomed now, kid—this is gonna haunt you for the rest of your days." He laughed. "Try to stop thinking about it now while you're ahead!"

"I'm not going insane," Dipper said. "Just shut up, I'm trying to remember."

"'I'm not obsessed, I swear! I can stop thinking about it any time I want!' Sure."

"Shut up," Dipper repeated. "It had to have been something important! Otherwise why would he dragged me out of my body and—and shown me the fourth dimension just so I could meet him?"

"Don't sound so self-important! You never saw the fourth dimension; if you had, you wouldn't think he looks like an axolotl. He visited this dimension's mindscape," Bill said. "And he didn't even mean to drag you into the mindscape! It was just a side-effect of his gravitational pull. He tugged you toward him just like everything else in town; but Earth'sgravity doesn't extend through planes like the mindscape, and his does. Yanked your spirit right out of your body."

"Then why was I the only one?" Dipper demanded. "Why didn't you or Grunkle Ford leave your bodies?"

"Your spirit's more loosely attached to your body than ours."

"Why?!"

For a moment, Bill's face twisted with displeasure; and then he sighed in resignation. "Ah, heck with it. You've been astral projecting."

Dipper's mouth worked uselessly. He croaked, "What?"

"It's when you—"

"I know what it is! I mean—what? How? When?"

"At least as long as I've been here. How long have you been having those out-of-body dreams?"

"Y—!" Dipper socked Bill's arm. Bill didn't even flinch. "You said those were nightmares!"

"And I lied," Bill said tiredly.

"Why?!"

"Thought you'd be annoying about it."

"I've been dealing with this all year, you—!" Dipper groaned in aggravation. "Why am I astral projecting! I wasn't trying to learn or anything!"

"How should I know, I wasn't around. Best guess, I think I ripped up the Velcro sticking your soul to your body when I yanked you out to puppet it," Bill said. "Oops."

Dipper gaped at him in outrage. "'Oops'?! That's all you can— I've been terrified and I thought it was a nightmare and it was real all along and it was all your fault and you won't even—"

"I knew you'd be annoying."

"I'm annoying?! How would you like it if you'd spent a year getting dragged out of your body in your sleep—!"

Bill abruptly stopped walking, turned toward Dipper, and said with an intensity that startled Dipper into silence, "You don't have the slightest idea how much I'd like it. How would you like it if you'd been trying for weeks t—" Bill cut himself off before he could get more heated; and instead, only said, "If you. Wanted to get out of your body. And couldn't. And some brat down the hall is doing it without even trying."

Dipper remained frozen, jaw locked tight in a grimace, until Bill turned away and trudged on. Dipper snapped, "But I don't want to do it. And it's your fault I am."

"Great. Nobody's satisfied." Bill sighed. "Make the most of it. Watch late night TV. Learn to meditate or something, I don't care. You've got nothing to worry about, it's harmless." He paused. "As long as nothing else crawls in your body while you're outside of it."

"WHAT?!"

"It's fine. Nothing'll get you in the shack through the unicorn hair barri... hm. Well—you're safe in the shack."

"But I have to go home at the end of summer! Will something be able to get me then?!"

Bill shrugged. "Hypothetically."

"Am I gonna die?!"

"Given my understanding of human mortality? Sure, sooner or later. Wanna hear your top five most likely causes of death?"

"No! Is it possible to—to stop? Can I control the astral projecting?"

"Yeah, sure, I guess. Ask me next time you're out of your body. I'll show you"

"Can't you show me n—"

"No. Not while you're in your body."

Dipper scowled. "Fine! Next time I'm projecting, I'm kicking you awake until you help me." He turned away from Bill; and, after a moment of fuming, mumbled to himself, "If I've been astral projecting... then that time I visited the neighbors... oh, man..." He trailed off, getting lost in his own thoughts.

Keeping silent during that discussion had been agony for Ford.

Every few seconds, he'd wanted to butt in either to eagerly ask for more information about the Axolotl or astral projection, or—far more often—to express his rage on Dipper's behalf, that Bill (of course!) had put him through this, and then not even had the decency (of course!) to try to rectify it.

But it was Dipper's conversation. It was about Dipper's problem, and anyway Dipper had been trying so long to pry some sort of useful information out of Bill—it would be cruel of Ford to snatch the conversation away from him when he was finally getting somewhere. He'd have a lot to discuss with Dipper once they were home and could get away from Bill.

But staying outside the conversation had let him observe three points he might have otherwise missed.

One: Bill really wasn't himself. Back when he'd been playing as Ford's muse, whenever he got to answer questions, he'd always done it with an air of theatricality and barely-suppressed glee; and after he'd given up that act, he'd answered questions with smug arrogance, the glee turned to sadistic delight at the bad news he could deliver. Now, he simply answered them. Even his attempts to be condescending gradually got less enthusiastic until they petered out completely.

Two: Bill was answering questions he never would have answered that morning. After telling them as little as he could about the thing coming to Gravity Falls, even trying to avoid admitting it was the Axolotl, now he was freely talking about the Axolotl's taste in furniture as though he knew the beast personally. After hiding that Dipper was astral projecting for over a month, he simply told him. Heck with it. He'd admitted it was probably his fault. He'd said the last two words Ford had ever thought he'd hear come out of Bill's mouth: I lied.

Three: this was the longest Bill had walked without needing a break all day. His voice was stronger. His steps were more steady. Ford had even seen him squeeze out a few dollops of astronaut paste between comments—and he struggled to make himself swallow, but he didn't gag.

And now that Dipper had stopped asking him about the Axolotl and about astral projection, Bill's footing was growing less certain again. He wove unsteadily on the path and had to pause to lean a hand on a stalactite, taking deep breaths. "Gimme a second."

Bill was distracting himself. He was keeping himself going through conversation, the simple ritual of receiving and answering questions. Ford understood: sometimes, in desperate circumstances, you had to burn yourself out to get somewhere safe enough to collapse and recover. When you had no choice but to push yourself, the best thing you could do was think about anything but your exhausted, failing body. It made it easier to keep moving and burn through what energy you had left.

Ford had once wondered if his "muse" was some manner of creature that was compelled to answer the questions his protégés asked him. This was perhaps the closest Bill had ever gotten to actually being such an entity: answering questions because he had to to go on, and willing to give away almost anything as long as it kept him moving.

Ford stopped next to Bill. "So. The Axolotl was the source of your 'gravitational eclipse,' I suppose."

"Astute observation," Bill said flatly.

"I take it that it isn't 'eclipsing' gravity so much as canceling it out. The Axolotl must have a mass similar to Earth's, if the force it exerts flying by above us is nearly identical to the force of Earth below us."

"More or less."

"But according to Dipper's observations, this Axolotl is only the size of Oregon at most. Did he underestimate its size? Or perhaps it's incredibly dense...?"

Bill gave Ford a sharp sideways glance. Were this any other conversation on any other day, this would be when the gloating started. Well, well, well, look who finally believes I was telling the truth, finally crawling back to me to give you all the answers you can't find yourself— But Bill only looked away again, pushed himself back upright, and kept walking. "You're the square looking at the sphere and thinking it's a circle," Bill said. "The majority of the Axolotl's mass is in dimensions you can't see. The little bit of him that's visible in the mindscape is just a... a feeler. Or an anglerfish's lure. The rest of him is close enough to exert a gravitational pull—but not in a dimension you can see."

"Which dimensions does he exist in?"

"I can't tell you because your species knows so little about them that the answer wouldn't mean anything. You haven't even decided whether or not you want to officially call the dimension that time shines from the 'fourth' dimension—I could tell you he comes from the seventeenth dimension and it wouldn't mean anything but an impressively high number to you."

Dubiously, Ford asked, "Does he come from the seventeenth?"

Bill waved a hand vaguely. "Heck if I know. The most I've ever seen at once is nine, and I was on a lot of psychedelics at the time. My eyeball popped."

"Eugh." 

"Worth it, though. If you ever wanna feel cosmically insignificant in the most breathtakingly beautiful way possible, and you don't mind going blind, let me know. I think I can remember most of what I was on."

"Pass," Ford said. "If the Axolotl is so enormous, then why was only Gravity Falls affected by its gravity? At a minimum, shouldn't have the rest of the Pacific Northwest been impacted—if not the whole planet?"

"He wasn't near the rest of the Pacific Northwest. In the third dimension, Gravity Falls is obviously connected to Oregon; but in higher dimensions, it's..." He tried unsuccessfully to pantomime something mountainlike. "Imagine if the second dimension were a flat sheet of stretchy fabric. If somebody plucked the fabric up in the middle and made a peak, a creature living on the surface of the fabric would still be able to travel across its slope like it was flat, right?"

Ford tried to visualize Bill's description. "Right."

"And so if a fly flew past the peak of the fabric, it'd cross near whatever town's at that peak without getting near the towns at the bottom of the slope."

"Rrright."

"That's what Gravity Falls looks like from the fourth dimension," Bill said. "In the third dimension you can't see anything, but to fourth dimensional beings it sticks out of the fabric of spacetime like a thousand mile high pillar in the middle of a desert. That's why Time Baby put his capitol here."

Now, Ford wasn't sure that sounded right, but he didn't know enough about the seventeenth-or-whatever dimension to dispute it. "And why you kept trying to punch through to our dimension from here?" he guessed. "I imagine stretching the fabric of spacetime that far might make it easier to tear."

Bill shot him a sour look, but didn't deny it.

"Why did the gravity go down slowly for two days and then come back all at once? Did the Axolotl just leave faster than it came?"

"You know how the Doppler effect works?"

Ford hesitated. "Yes. Obviously."

"Well, in higher dimensions, gravity works like a reverse Doppler effect. It spreads out in front of a moving object—"

"Oh, come on."

"—and compresses behind the object—"

"Now you're just making up scientific-sounding nonsense because you know I can't disprove it."

"I'm not, and as soon as you get me a pen and paper I can prove it." Loftily, Bill said, "There's a simple equation that can explain higher dimensional gravity."

Ford was pretty sure he was being made fun of. He didn't mean to laugh, but he did. Dipper looked at him like he'd lost his mind; but trying to explain what was so funny would probably just make him look more insane.

Bill looked nearly as surprised.

####

"... And the smaller axolotls, what are they—heralds, worshipers? Children?"

Bill scoffed in disgust, "I don't know, I've never asked him. I see them like the flies orbiting a cow's tail. They migrate with him, that's all I know."

"Then the Axolotl really was just 'migrating'?"

"Well. Migrating in the sense that a mayfly watching a human walk back and forth to the office thinks it must be 'migrating.' He has..." Bill gestured vaguely, "duties, that mandate he travel fixed routes through the multiverse. He just happens to have a years-long workday. His commute doesn't usually take him past 46'\."

"'Duties' as in... divine duties?"

"It depends on if you worship him for doing them. I don't."

The cavern was growing light again, and the distant waterfall was audible. Ford quietly sighed in relief. Even as oddly forthcoming as Bill had been, Ford doubted that even two-thirds of the information he'd shared was true. But it was hard to tell. It had always been hard to tell.

Dipper helped Ford deflate the raft and pack it up. As he did, he said, voice low, "Is it just me, or is Bill kinda...?"

Ford cast a sideways glance across the cavern. Bill was crouched in front of the geodite he'd carried all up and down the tunnel, backpack in his lap, pouring a pile of soggy cereal onto the ground for the geodite to eat. Ford was surprised he'd gotten so attached to the creature. "I think he's been in some state of mental shock since the fall in the lake," Ford said. "And it seems he hasn't been able to keep down a full meal since we left yesterday. I suspect he's barely on his feet. The sooner we can get him back to the shack, the better."

"Oh." Dipper frowned toward Bill. (He was now pouring cold medicine on the cereal. Ford would have to ask him about geodite diets.)

"What are you thinking?"

Dipper shook his head. "I just thought... He seems like he's thinking about something. And he's giving so much away... I don't know. I wanted him to talk, but now it makes me wonder if he's scheming something."

From what Ford had seen, at the moment he doubted Bill could so much as scheme a way to ruin a picnic. But now he was second-guessing his perception. Ford knew Bill better than anyone; but that also meant Bill knew how to manipulate Ford better than anyone. What was Dipper seeing that he didn't? "Really? Do you think so?"

Dipper hesitated. "I—thought so? Maybe not." (Well, now they were both second-guessing themselves.) "I just don't know why he'd tell us so much if he isn't up to something. It feels like a distraction."

"Ah." Ford nodded. "I think the distraction is for himself."

"Mm." (Ford wasn't sure if Dipper had heard him.) "I just feel like there's—something. I can feel it in the back of my head." He stared at Bill a moment longer; then shook his head and turned away. "Maybe it's not him, maybe it's the Axolotl. He said something I can't remember. Something about degrees."

"Degrees?"

But Dipper didn't reply. He'd returned to his work, lost in his own head, mumbling under his breath the way he did whenever he was trying to work something out. Something else for Ford to ask about later.

When they got in Tate's loaned motorboat to head back out, Dipper got a look at the rainbow trout slippers Bill had put back on, and let out a choked laugh of surprise; and then that was the last sound any of them made as they crossed the lake. Ford steered, Dipper remained lost in his own thoughts, and Bill stared at his friendship bracelet, thumb running around the glass evil eyes.

####

(Finally a few mysteries solved! I hope y'all enjoyed, and I look forward to hearing what you think. Next week is another emotionally wrenching chapter!!)

[b3ach-bunn7]

Saw your request for story ideas!

Jason with a fibromyalgic reader. He really never has to fear them they will never have the strength to over power him. Only if you want to and are comfortable

(Pinky promise this is sent in by a fibromyalgic)

Hey, I really hope I wrote this as you hoped for! I tried my best to read up on the condition before, and I hope I did you justice!

DEPOLLUTE ME

You’re weaker than Jason, but it just makes him love you even more

—————————————————————————-

Jason Todd is a man of principles. Doing what he does, a vigilante, he has to be. Dick had told him when he'd emerged as Redhood, that it didn’t work to do what you want. That, despite what he’d like to believe, Jason was privileged to have the strength and talent that he did, and it was people like them who abused it, that were the reason they were doing this in the first place.

Whatever. Dick always wants to be the smartest guy in the room, Jason thinks. These principles, though, are why he was so scared of you at first. Maybe not of you, but to be with you.

Because the problem with you is that he’s completely not scared of you. And it's all because of your condition, which makes him feel even shittier than he already does about jt.

Fibromyalgia. That’s what it’s called, the condition he’d stayed up two nights in a row reading all he could about. Books and NHS information pages. Anything to learn everything about you. You’d told him about it on your fifth date, the one he’d planned to ask you to be his girlfriend. A chronic illness, that caused pain, fatigue, headaches.

“I just- It doesn’t hinder me much. I just need you to know before this gets serious. That you’ll probably be looking after me more than the average girlfriend.” You’d said, eyes cast down to the half eaten food on your plate.

“That doesn’t bother me. It- I’ve got some mobility issues too, in my arm. Got shot once.” Jason winces at the repsponse he’d given you. Like the two were even remotely similar.

You’d smiled slightly. “It’s a little worse than that. It’s a chronic illness. It’s sort of like.. constant pain in my body? Makes my muscles stiffer, amongst other things. And it makes me sort of.. weaker, I guess. Physically.”

The two of you had talked about it for a while, before you’d changed the subject. He’d asked you to be his girlfriend still, under the porch light at your doorway, and you said yes.

It’s why he’s in your apartment right now. You’d given him a key (despite him being perfectly capable of using the window) and never seem phased in the slightest when he’s sprawled on your couch reading when you’re not there. He loves those things the most about his relationship with you. You’d carved a place for him in your life and it felt so effortless. Like you didn’t even need to think about making an extra portion at dinner or leaving a change of clothes out even after you fall asleep, because you know he always finishes his work late.

Weaker. That’s the word you used to describe yourself. And in a way, Jason loves it.

It’s only something he’d admit to you, or maybe months into forced therapy sessions, but Jason Todd is scared. He’s scared of a lot of things, contrary to what he lets other people see. He’s scared he’ll lose the handful of people he’s come to love. He’s scared that one day he’ll fight another fight he won’t win. He’s scared that one day he might wake up and he’s back there, Arkham Asylum, with that sorry excuse of a human being with him. But worst of all, he’s scared of people. Not an overwhelming fear, nothing he can’t fight through in an instance, but. He just never knows who he can trust. Who he can be vulnerable around.

And Jason isn’t weak by any means. Not that he likes to brag, but most of his body mass is muscle, ones you’ve seen, abs you’d run your hands across under his bedsheets. He can defend himself, he knows he can. He just doesn’t want to have that fear looming over his head all the time. Because it can happen. It happened once.

It had already taken so long for him to even let you in. And it was so easy. You were so perfect. So pretty, so sweet. Jason was half sure you were lying about your condition, because there was no way somebody in constant pain, 24/7, was so kind. So nice. Had patience for how long it took him to warm up to you, to let you touch him without him breaking your hands.

It was like a miracle. One he was so cruelly happy for. It was like somebody had taken all the fears he had in every relationship and eradicated them. There was no world where you could hurt him like so many others had done before. You were incapable of it. He could let his guard down completely and he’d be fine.

And he felt guilty for it at first. Of course he did. Like he was benefiting from something that caused you pain. He’d told you, but like with everything, you were perfect. You’d only laughed,

“It’s okay.” You’d snorted, amused at his apologetic face. It had been uttered in the dark of your bedroom, his arms wrapped around your waist, your back pressed into his chest.

“I don’t really mind.” You fiddled absentmindedly with his fingers, traced the calluses on his palms. “Kinda like it, actually. Most people use it as an excuse to like me less. You’re doing the opposite.”

So he doesn’t feel guilty anymore. Maybe slightly, but that little smile you give him, he hates to say it melts him enough that he doesn’t care.

The sound of the door creaking open drags his attention away from his thoughts. He looks up and there you are. Bundled in a scarf and gloves and a hat. You told him that the cold sometimes made it worse, and the winter weather was cruel. Your eyes light up when you see him sitting on the couch. You bound over, throwing the discarded book on his lap away, and sitting down.

“Hey.” You grin.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You lay down next to him and Jason moves, let you settle slowly down next to him, a hand carding through your hair. You ramble about your day and he listens.

[gen4grl]

my johto timeskip designs + bios/teams below!

i think about this group ALOT!!! if i had any confidence in writing i would easily share the whole hgss rewrite i have in my head but alas… just take my drawings instead! i like to give characters more “realistic” outfits… not really a modern au? i love to imagine the pokemon world with all our worlds pop culture which inspires my designs! long post but enjoy!!! ( ˘ ³˘)♥︎

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⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

lyra + 20. champion ranked trainer

♡ Raised by her single mother, aunt and older cousin Kris in the small New Bark home. Her father died when she was 6 in a mining incident involving Team Rocket. Bubbles, her ace Azumarill, was gifted to Lyra by her father on her 5th birthday - being her final gift from him.

♡ Extremely outgoing, sweetly optimistic and immensely empathic. Absolutley loves making friends and talking to every kind of person. However, is extremely competitive & stubbon and gets frustrated easily - resulting in her giving up quickly but is also extremely quick to be re-motivated. Often feels the emotions of others intensely. Very country girl with an extremely strong Johtoian accent and lisp. Loves 'girly' things like makeup + fashion, period dramas and collecting nick-nacks but also loves spending her days outdoors, espcially in the National Park with Ethan watching the bug-catching contests or the Safari Zone.

♡ Struggled with her battle confidence as a young trainer which resulted in her having to re-battle Falkner and Bugsy several times. Over her journey grew an appreciation for pokemon perceived to be 'weak' & cute and built her team around showing the powers of these types of pokemon. Despite being a Champion Ranked trainer, Lyra opted to work with Ethans grandparents at the daycare center where she specialises in pokemon breeding and training weaker pokemon + their trainers.

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silver + 23. champion ranked trainer

♡ Only child of Rocket Boss, Giovanni. Was born and raised on Island 5 of the Sevii Islands by multiple admins, most commonly Archer before running away to Johto. Has a deep rooted and consistent fear that he’ll never amount to anything but “Giovanni's kid”. Was extremely tight lipped about his upbringing to the trio, especially after learning of his loose connection to Lyras father’s passing. Finally told them the truth of his family after the defeat and final disbandment of Team Rocket.

♡ Originally extremely standoffish, condescending and at times, aggressive. As an adult is still quite serious and independent, but genuinely enjoys the time he spends with his friends and is surprisingly protective of them - especially Lyra and Kris. As time passed, his anger towards his father evolved more into guilt, however, over the years has become more patient, gentle and forgiving with not only others but himself. He still can come off quite intimidating to strangers, but these changes are noticeably visible to those close to him. While usually a quiet person, has a very dry and witty sense of humour that takes most people by surprise.

♡ Mentored by Lance, and later Blue, and spends a large amount of time training in the Dragons Den. While unsure of what direction he wants his life to go into, Lance is adamant he would make a fantastic gym leader or elite four member. Always accompanies Lyra to the yearly Champion Balls and Alola trips. Currently lives in a small beachside bungalow with Lyra in Cherrygrove where he enjoys spending his free time reading and teaching himself guitar.

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ethan + 21

♡ The childhood friend of Lyra, Ethan was raised by his father and grandparents in New Bark. Extremely courteous, friend & family oriented and easy to talk to. A natural comic and can make even the straightest face people crack a slight smile - Red being his proudest achievement. Lax and slightly ditsy but can adapt to any situation and group of people like a flick of a switch. Not the best at articulating himself but always puts 110% into making sure people feel comfortable through his actions.

♡ Completed the 8 Johto gyms but never challenged the Elite Four & Lance in favour for persuing his true passions. Currently works at the Goldenrod Radio Tower where he co-hosts a program consisting of interviewing gym leaders, elite four, champions and other prolific battlers. At nights, does standup in the clubs in the Goldenrod Tunnel. Due to his easy-going nature and career, tends to knows everyone’s buisness + gossip and has crazy experiences with nearly any person imaginable.

♡ Currently lives in a small loft in Goldenrod. Spends his free time watching anime + cartoons or in the National Park either watching the Bug Contests, skating or talking to the old folks. Enjoys the nightlife of Goldenrod where he usually pulls Silver out to bar hop or spend hours playing Voltorb Flip.

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kris + 25

♡ Oldest and mother figure of the group. Was born and grew up in New Bark town with her mother before her cousin Lyra + aunt moved in with them when she was 11. The two shared the large upstairs bedroom growing up where Kris introduced Lyra to contests and the annual Champion & Wallace cups.

♡ Mature, soft spoken and extremely intellegent - both academically and socially. Because of this, can offer solutions on any issue on both a practical and emotional level, no matter the person and situation. Has unique relationships with all three kids but in general sees them as her younger siblings and takes the role as the 'older sister' very seriously. Has a warm and comforting presence, making those even to the likes of Silver feel comfortable confinding in her.

♡ Quite reserved and struggled with her purpose and sexuality growing up, espcially in rural Johto. After the death of her uncle and seeing her daughter’s interests in the Wallace Cups and contests, her mother moved the two to the Hoenn region, settling in Lilycove City when Kris was 13. While starting her gym challenge in the new region, Kris fell in love with Hoenn's unique weather patterns and ecosystems. Eventually she quit the gym challenge to peruse a career as a meteorologist where she now works at the weather institute. When not working, she enjoys attending contests, museums and scuba diving. Finally feeling settled in life, she came out to her family + the trio when she was 20.

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[weirdsht]

HAHAHAHA imagine Cale with someone weaker than him + a troublemaker and oftentimes think crazier than him, but they're useful so that's what tied them together with the gang💀 bro might feel the stress his hyungs felt whenever he throws himself into danger lol and would start reflecting. Have u done this b4? :D

Is This My Karma? - Cale/Reader

notes: anon... did you take a look inside my mind? or maybe my docs? because the series i'm going to publish later has a similar prompt. i was gonna make it a surprise but since the cat is out of the bag imma announce it here lol. i'll be making a cale/reader slowburn series or at least try but while waiting for that you guys enjoy this small drabble from anon's ask first

tags: fluff, sickfic, reader is an idiot, cale is also an idiot, idiots in love basically, choi han is in charge of their single braincell, established relationship

English isn’t my first language so there will be grammatical errors

Pls don't repost my work anywhere without my permission

Constructive criticisms and any kind of interaction are more than welcome

Requests are open and welcome

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“For the last time, you will not pass your cold to the White Star. How are you even going to achieve that? Also what merit would it bring if that punk catches your sickness?”

Cale glanced over at the sick person in his bed speaking nonsense. Well, it’s not completely nonsense as it was possible.

…If that said person wasn’t on the verge of dying because of a fever.

“We both cough know it’s cough possible. Plus you’re not looking at the bigger picture of cough White Star getting a fever.”

“No you’re just thinking irrationally-”

“Ah ah, I’m still cough speaking. Let the cough sick cough speak.”

“...I think the sick should shut the hell up and sleep.”

The person who is Cale’s significant other only glared at the commander before drinking the water Choi Han handed to them. When arguments like this first happened the swordmaster would interject to create peace.

But that was before he learned just how unhinge this person was.

_____, Cale’s headache and significant other, was a naturally weak person. Even weaker than Cale without ancient powers. However, despite their physical prowess being on the weaker side they have a very useful ancient power.

They have a wood attribute power that can conjure flowers, grass, and trees with either poison or healing powers. Its downside is that the abilities do not work on _____. However, they can make flowers that can spread whatever sickness they have at the moment.

“We all know you just need to fling me at cough a good distance near Mr. Steal-My-Cale’s-Looks and I can pass him my cold with the flowers. Easy peasy Ron’s lemon squeezy.”

Cale remembers _____’s explanation being that the flowers' pollen would contain the same bacteria and virus as their body. Or something along those lines.

“...”

“Hear me cough out, okay? Imagine this, White Star with his plate on the verge of breaking, coughing out so much blood, armless in every sense of the cough as well. Imagine a cough nasty fever and cough combo on top of that.”

“...”

_____ looked at the silent Cale expectantly.

“Sometimes I really wonder why I got together with a punk like you”

“But you love me!”

Sigh

Cale couldn’t refute so he just sighed.

At first, he let _____ join their group because they were useful. Not only is their ability useful but they are also intelligent. They have the see the faults in Cale’s plan and think of a counter-measure. They can also conjure up great plans.

Well, most of the time at least.

Other times look like this…

“No, we are not doing your absurd plan. Just go to sleep and get better, I’ll take care of things.”

Cale kissed the top of _____’s head.

“And don’t even try to think of sneaking out like you did last time. Alberu and Tasha almost had a heart attack.”

The previously smiling _____ because of Cale’s kiss was now pouting because of the reminder. 

Meanwhile, Cale let them be as he went out of their bedroom.

He let out another sigh as he did. Behind him was Choi Han struggling to suppress a smile, wait no a laugh.

“What’s up with you?”

“No, it’s just that Cale-nim you and _____-nim are really similar.”

Choi Han added after seeing Cale glare at him.

“Sometimes that’s how your plans look to us.”

“Haaa”

Cale couldn’t help but notice how his acting like his sworn brother right now.

‘Is this how the crown prince feels about me?’

Not just the crown prince but everyone else as well.

‘Was this why team leader-nim and Choi Jung Soo insisted that I should farm with them even after retirement?’

There was no way, right?

‘There’s no way me and _____ are similar. I’m not self-sacrificial like that. I always make sure that I will live.’

Right?

Looks like he finally got all my warnings.

Cale ignored Super Rock’s voice.

But still, he can’t deny that he caused his group some headaches.

“...I will reflect on myself.”

Choi Han only nodded and smiled at the dazed young master.

Meanwhile, Cale’s mind is a bit chaotic right now.

‘Did my karma come in the form of my significant other?’

There’s no way that’s the case… right?

Right???